Salt on the Tongue

The air near the sea has a specific weight, a dampness that clings to the skin like a second, invisible layer of clothing. I remember the taste of it—a sharp, metallic tang of salt that settles on the back of the throat, mingling with the scent of wet stone and cooling sand. It is a lonely, hollow feeling, the way the wind pulls at your hair, demanding you notice the vastness of the dark. We are small, fragile things, yet we build beacons to scream our presence into the void. There is a comfort in that rhythm, the steady pulse of a light that does not ask for anything in return, only watches. Does the lighthouse ever grow tired of the silence, or does it find peace in the way the tide constantly tries to erase the shore? My shoulders drop as I imagine the steady, rhythmic sweep of that beam, and I finally let my breath out, sinking into the quiet of the dark.

Ruben Alexander has captured this feeling in his beautiful image titled The Guiding Light. The way the light cuts through the evening air feels like a physical touch against the skin. Does this steady glow bring you a sense of calm, or does it make you feel the vastness of the night?