WANDERLUST: Bolinas sunset…
This raggedy edge of the continent, where the Mesa drops into the Pacific like God’s own ashtray has the kind of beautiful decay that makes you understand why people become insufferable about places.
The light here doesn’t apologize. It just bleeds out across tide pools and driftwood and the barnacled pier pilings, turning everything into some prehistoric theater where the main act is entropy and salt air. You can taste the mildew in the fog, smell decades of patchouli and pot smoke baked into the weathered redwood siding. There’s desperation in paradise, always has been, artists and outlaws and burned out seekers who found the edge and decided stopping was better than the long fall.
It’s hostile and gorgeous and completely indifferent to my journey of self discovery. Which is exactly what makes it sacred. The sunset doesn’t give a shit about my camera or my revelations. It just happens, spectacular and brutal, while the ocean keeps erasing everything I thought mattered.