It’s a fine line, that horizon. The sunset pushes past it so quietly, almost absently. It promises both more, an unknown beyond, and an end, a finish to the day, a limitation on how far we see. The ocean rises to meet it and is turned back, and in retaliation it swallows the clouds and the sun, sucks the light and color from the sky and leaves only the crumbs of stars, and the moon until it too tires and falls to the ground.
We travel to meet it but are never greeted. We climb mountains to find it, and simply find it has leapt to the next mountain top, taunting us with a reach too far. And yet we never tire of the chase. We are never disappointed. If anything, we are encouraged, we keep playing its game as a child blissfully ignores the futility of a game that cannot be won. We never cross that line, and we never will, but we still reach for it, the hard, inked outline that encircles everything we know, the outline colored in by each thing we find inside it. Each our own personal coloring book, published by the horizon and left in our hands to fill its pages.
It’s a fine line, that horizon. But it lives for our defiance of it.