I think about how the sky paints the sea purple and pink and orange, but only when it feels like it, on special days of warm nights and 9:00 sunsets. That sometimes it’s hard to find where the sea ends and the sky starts, but there’s beauty in continuity and some things are left for wonder. As we float away, ripples from the motor leave a trail behind– but this isn’t a lesson on impacts made or legacies left. Instead I want you to see the soft lines of the waves, how no one talks about how beautiful water is when both gently disturbed but also can be as powerful and encompassing as it crashes against overbearing cliffs, how easily it can take a life away but just as so give it. How it contributes to fluidity, as fluid as the blood in my limbs; the same red running current as what’s in you. The same soft lines on the surface of Anthropluera elegantissima, like water color paints– how water can spread and share and ignite hues of vastness and creativity. Or maybe more so those soft lines mimic a high school student trying oil paints for the first time– the intent is there but execution is anything but perfect. But that’s okay. Because the sea never waited for perfection; it never waited for coloring within the lines–or the sky. The sea does whatever the heck it wants. And it can not and should not ever be contained or described as a bathroom theme in an orange county beach house; the sea does not deserve that and water should never be taken for granted. But that sometimes colors should bleed from the sky onto everything we love.