the overwhelmingly sad beauty

This evening I saw the single most beautiful and sad thing ever.

It was twenty past six, I was at Mosman Beach. It's a Sunday thing - walk on the dog beach, lose myself in my own solitude. It works.

I always knew we were blessed to live in Western Australia for one thing: beach sunsets.

And I try not to take them for granted.

This evening's was perfect. I honestly cannot recall seeing anything more perfect.

There was a clear view to Rottnest Island, or at least its silhouette, among those of ships along Gage Roads.

The sun was tracking its last ten or so minutes into the ocean and there were just enough clouds to make spectacular reds, yellows, oranges and purples of every shade imaginable.

To the left there were the lights of Fremantle's inner harbour, the twinkling beacons of cranes, cranes and more cranes. It was eerily beautiful bathed in the greenish yellow shades the lighter cloud cover to the south was giving off.

And then to my right a storm was brewing further up the coast. The looming thunderclouds didn't know whether they purple or dark, dark grey. But every so often the sky would light up as the electricity couldn't contain itself any longer.

And there I was in amongst it, sand between my toes with nothing but my car keys in my pocket and my thongs in one hand. It wasn't hot, nor was it cold. There was a light breeze, but not enough to make one look windswept. Everything was right.

My reaction?

I started crying.

I honestly can't tell you why I was crying - it could have been because it was so epically beautiful, to the point of overwhelmingly beautiful

It could have also been that something so beautiful is meant to be shared. It was an amazing moment; something I'll never forget. But it will also be something I'll never be able to turn to someone and say, "Hey, remember that sunset? The one with the thunderstorm that eclipsed every other sunset?"

And that in itself was so, so sad.