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Everything I try to write about seems to have been thought about before. The soft light of some flashing street lamps that enlighten my figure as I walk down the street in a lost neighborhood of a hidden city of a country I always fail to remember. Any thought that teases my mind will feel foreign. The sight that is painted in front of my eyes, the waves of a sea that has no master and that I try to lock up between these rules, the soft and warm breeze brushing my skin in a touch that I have been craving for so long, the kiss of an ocean dying between my fingers with its foam leaving behind the sweet nostalgia of a long story that today comes to an end, that comes to die to my feet and my feet buried in the now quicksand do not think they deserve such an honor. Everything I write in my notebook in a hurry, that adrenaline of someone who thinks he's discovering something, fades with the last rays of a sun that hides in the distance of the water and I wish I were the sun to drown myself every night in that sea! I wish I were the sea to hold my beloved in the moonlight one last day! But all I have is a notebook, a beach, and a lot of feelings that have been written about before. A million images that have already taken the breath away of thousands of people before me. And yet it still takes it away. And yet I write about it. After all, my job is to describe what I see and not what I experience when I see it. Keeping this in mind, there is a beautiful beach that, under the careful gaze of the dreams of a full moon, feels eternal, that under the frozen touch of the grains of sand on my skin seems like a lullaby, that wrapped up by the sound of a sea that sings its good night song to an entire seaside town, makes it an earthly paradise. It's a beach, nothing more. A beach at night, with its waves and its sand as cold as a long winter. Although it's nighttime. Between sentences, I raise my head and contemplate the endlessness that surrounds me and I feel small. Although it's just a beach. A beach where every summer morning the children come to play and form memories, memories to which they will return in their rawest maturity, where every summer afternoon the youngest of the place come to drink their first beers and give their first hurried kisses (the taste of which they will not remember, but they will never forget the pile of sand they held tightly in their hands behind their backs), and which every summer night the poor like me will come to seek inspiration to sink a little deeper into their own misery by confirming after one more sunset that they cannot describe. That he cannot speak of the flowers that adorn the palm trees, nor of the wooden paths to the shore, nor of the dull rocks that pile up beside him; to him these things mean nothing. Because he needs to talk about the moon, it could be the Spanish, the Italian, the French or the English one; because the moon transmits something different to him night after night, and accompanies him wherever he goes, (and because he will have forgotten about this beach tomorrow). But he has to do it. He needs to fill these pages of his notebook with redundant words, with empty descriptions, with feelings that others have previously felt in that place, to be able to feel that he has done a good job. And with his eyes fixed on the landscape, he feels simple trying to describe a silly beach. Because a beach is a beach, nothing more. But I'm still trying to find God everywhere.