I prefer the beach.
When I was younger, I used to drive there late at night — pitch black, couldn’t see my own hand, but I could hear the waves. That distant crash would light up the darkness like a lighthouse. The moon would hit the water just right and suddenly the ocean felt alive. And in some weird way, so did I.
It comforted me.
It made me feel like I wasn’t alone.
I’d imagine heaven was somewhere out there past the breakers — quiet, endless, peaceful. The edge of the land, the edge of the world, the closest you could get to God without dying. I’d walk the shoreline thinking, dreaming, trying to breathe.
Did I ever get in the water at night?
Hell no. Too damn cold, too damn dark, too damn suspicious.
But walking?
Walking felt like therapy.
During the day, different story.
Hot summer, sunscreen, eyes closed, face to the sun, listening to the waves like a heartbeat. That was my peace. That was my escape. That was the one place where I could disappear and somehow feel more like myself.
So yeah—
Beach over mountains, always.
Because the ocean taught me how to breathe when life didn’t.
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