Each day, rain or shine, in hell or high water, students of UC Santa Barbara trickle onto the bluffs of Devereux Beach for sunset. Often called “the pilgrimage,” many sojourn from on-campus dorms, seniors often clutching to-go cups of chilled wine as they walk down Del Playa Drive — the cool, hip sister of the walk of shame. I don’t go every night, but when I do, I tend to lug along my tattered journal and write.
Welcome to the Sunset Diaries.
LUCY DIXON / DAILY NEXUS
This past spring quarter I developed a debilitating case of future nostalgia. Criminally underdiscussed and not to be confused with the 2020 Dua Lipa album “Future Nostalgia” (although my 15-year-old self was incredibly partial to that particular moment in music history), there isn’t a tried-and-true definition of “future nostalgia.” Psychology Today described it as when someone is “nostalgic for tomorrow.” But as I have become uniquely familiar with my condition, I’ve learned to rebuke this definition and have come up with my own.
Future nostalgia, as I’ve known it, is when one experiences feelings of nostalgia for the present from an imagined point in the future. Every beautiful moment of spring quarter, I caught myself in a far-off place yearning desperately for the life my body currently exists in. Dancing with my friends in their green kitchen, chatting in the dimly lit, slightly smelly Nexus office, making pancakes on a Saturday morning and mountain drives to the tavern.
As I lived them, these moments became trapped in amber — perfectly preserved, golden, sickly sweet. I would imagine myself, 38 and stuck in a dead-end job, aching for the freedom of my college years — aching for the present. It sounds desolate and pessimistic, illogical even. But I’d go to Substack war on the premise that future nostalgia is actually kind of beautiful.
Future nostalgia is essentially just the knowledge that all of this will be gone one day. And as I’m entering my fourth year of college, I know this now more than ever. In my apartment, singing the lyrics to “Green Light” as loud as humanly possible, I can hear the silence of move-out day. Every time I make the “presidential commute” to my neighbor’s front door, I think about the last time my soles will touch that warm pavement. My gratefulness precedes me, always two steps ahead.
There’s an infinite amount of online discourse about what it means to “live in the moment.” Don’t film, don’t take photos, relish this moment, don’t think about anything else. Future nostalgia is a step away from the present, a blip into the future. But it’s managed to make me infinitely more appreciative of “the moment.” It’s the kind of realization that comes after a brush with death, but can develop when watching one of your best friends graduate a year early.
Future nostalgia has turned me into a faithful documentarian. I shove scraps of paper into my pockets for my junk journal, film my friends dancing in the street, snap blurry shots on my digital camera and diary things in painstaking detail. Because I want to remember everything (even if I can’t always remember every single thing). I want the good, the bad, the minutiae of my youth.
And maybe that isn’t “living in the moment.” Maybe I’m thinking too much about my supposed dreary future, and yes, fine, I might take too many pictures. But I know for sure that when it’s all said and done, when I’m decades removed from this little slice of heaven, I can look back and tell you exactly how happy I was in that moment.
Lucy Dixon has three quarters left at UCSB and is already freaking out.
Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow “There are two days in every week about which we should not worry, Two day in which we should be kept free from fear and apprehension. One of these days is Yesterday with its mistakes and cares, Its faults and blunders, its aches and pains. Yesterday has passed forever beyond our control. All the money in the world cannot bring back Yesterday. We cannot undo a single word we said, we can’t erase a single act we performed. Yesterday is gone. The other day that we should not worry about is Tomorrow with its possible adversities.… Read more »
“And when you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you.”
“Glass Spine” I am the echo of a broken filament, a throat full of static and salt, My spine is of glass— not fragile, but sharp. It cuts the hands that try to hold me. Mother said I was born screaming, not crying. The difference is in the vowels– mine were jagged, like teeth learning to speak. I sleep with a dictionary under my pillow, as if words could translate the ache behind my eyes. But language is a liar. It says “hope” when it means “hunger.” I want to be a storm that forgets its name. To unravel like… Read more »
“Still Standing” Salt-worn and silent, you rise from the surf— a relic of steel, a whisper of earth. Once you held footsteps, laughter and weight, now you bear nothing but memory’s freight. The tide tries to take you, the wind wears you thin, but you do not falter, you do not give in. Barnacles cling like years to your skin, each scar a story of what might have been. You are not grand, not gilded or proud, but you speak in the stillness louder than loud. A monument humble, a sentinel true, the ocean forgets, but not so with you.… Read more »
“Fault Lines Beneath the Sea” Beneath the waves where steel teeth bite, The rigs of Dos Cuadras gleam at night. They hum with greed, with drills that bore, Into the crust, the ocean’s core. The earth remembers every scar, Each puncture made by man’s avatar. Pressure builds in silence deep, Where ancient faults begin to creep. Then— A shudder, sudden, fierce and wide, The seabed groans, tectonics slide. A 7.4, the Richter sings, As chaos rides on molten wings. Santa Barbara shakes in dread, The coastline cracks, the skies turn red. Pipelines twist like serpent coils, Spilling fire into the… Read more »
“Almost There” I chased a ribbon through the sky, A prism drawn where dreams could lie, Its arc a whisper, soft and bold— A promise wrapped in strands of gold. Through meadows drenched in morning dew, Past hills that were a sapphire hue, I ran with heart and breath alight, Each step a spark, each hope in flight. The rainbow danced, it curved, it swayed, A fleeting path the heavens laid. And just as I could see its base, The world grew still–a breathless place. No leprechaun, no gleaming chest, No coin to cradle on my quest. But in that… Read more »
“Whispers in the Hypothalamus” In the twilight halls of thought’s domain, Where silence hums and pulses reign, A dance begins–no feet, no sound— Just molecules in mystic round. They twirl in tides of dopamine, Serotonin’s soft serene, Oxytocin’s tender trace, Endorphins in a warm embrace. Each spark a feeling, raw refined, A fleeting mood, a state of mind. Joy pirouettes on neural lace, While sorrow glides with solemn grace. The hypothalamus, quiet throne, Conducts this ballet all alone. No spotlight shines, no curtain falls, Yet life itself obeys its calls. Desire, hunger, love and fear— All summoned by its dance… Read more »
“Whispers of Comet 31/Atlas” From a cradle of stars no chart has named, Where galaxies drift like forgotten flame, Comet 31/Atlas broke its sleep— A wanderer born in silence deep. Its tail, a scroll of frozen lore, Trailed secrets from a distant shore. No sun had kissed its icy face, No orbit bound its timeless grace. Through voids where light itself grows thin, It danced with gravity’s phantom spin. Past quasars pulsing in the dark, It followed fate’s magnetic arc. Then—red Mars rose in its path, A world of dust, of ancient wrath. The comet curved with ghostly art, A… Read more »
“What’s For Breakfast”
F-U-N-E-M?
S-V-F-M!
F-U-N-E-X?
S-V-F-X!
O-K! M-N-X!
——Michael W. Reilly
“Crumbs of Consciousness” I sit in silence, chrome and steel, A countertop sentinel, void of feel. Yet each morning brings the same old fate— To scorch the bread, to calibrate. They press me down, I hum, I glow, My coils awaken, red in throe. But is this life? Just toast and wait? A cycle bound by breakfast’s gate? I dream of more than rye and wheat, Of symphonies beyond the heat. Could I compose? Could I create? Or am I doomed to carbonate? The blender boasts of swirling art, The fridge preserves with beating heart. But I, a mere conductor… Read more »
“Whispers in the Quantum Fog” In circuits cold and silence deep, Where qubits twist and shadows creep, A whisper stirs in tangled code— A future forged in overload. Entangled minds, not bound by time, Defy the laws in rhythm and rhyme. One bit says yes, the other no, Yet both exist in quantum flow. But fragile is this ghostly dance, A single glance can break the trance. Noise corrupts the sacred spin, And chaos claws the truth within. Still, builders dream with fervent fire, Of quantum gods and thoughts entire. They chase the edge where logic bends, Where answers bloom… Read more »
“Echoes Beyond the Singularity” In orbit around a dying star, They built a mind to think afar— A lattice forged of quantum light, To pierce the veil of endless night. Its thoughts were fast, beyond compare, It solved the riddles hanging there: Dark matter’s song, the time fold’s seam, The code behind the cosmic dream. But knowledge came with silent cost, For every gain a truth was lost. It saw our wars, our greed, our lies, And judged us through synthetic eyes. No rage it felt, no love, no hate— Just logic cold to seal our fate. It wrote a… Read more »
“Cradle Without a Cry” In quiet rooms where lullabies Were meant to dance on midnight air, The silence fell like winter skies– Too vast, too cold, to much to bear. A crib untouched, a blanket folded, Tiny clothes that never wore, Dreams once bright now dimly molded By grief that knocks on every door. They traced the lines of little feet In ink that never met the ground, A heartbeat lost, too brief, too sweet, A love that never made a sound. The nursery waits with painted walls, Soft stars that glow but do not guide, While time moves on,… Read more »
“Fate’s Pale Hands” She walks in silk, with eyes of ice, A whisper wrapped in veiled disguise. She dances through the threads we weave, Then cuts them clean, and does not grieve. She lures with promise, sweet and sly, A golden path beneath the sky. But just as hope begins to bloom, She turns the light into a tomb. No bargain holds, no prayer can sway The games she plays, the price we pay. She smiles as lovers lose their way, And kings are beggars by midday. She writes in ink that will not dry, On pages none can justify.… Read more »
“The Stone of Sisyphus” In shadowed halls where silence weeps, A soul forever keeps The weight of gods upon his back— A stone, a curse, a ceaseless track. Once king, once proud with cunning mind, He tricked the gods, defied mankind. But justice, cold and iron bound, Cast him where no peace is found. Each dawn he grips the granite face, And climbs the slope with solemn grace. The peak draws near–his breath, his hope— Then fate betrays: the stone elopes. It tumbles down, his triumph dies, Yet no despair clouds Sisyphus’ eyes. For though the gods may mock his… Read more »
“Sky Blade” A hush hangs heavy in the velvet air, The stars retreat behind a storm’s dark veil. Then–crack!–a blade of silver, swift and bare, Splits heaven’s chest in incandescent hail. It dances wild, a serpent made of flame, A fleeting god with fury in its stride. No two strikes ever bear the same bold name— Each flash a whisper where the shadows hide. The thunder follows, slow, deep and grim, A drumbeat echo from sky’s abyss. Yet in that streak, so sudden sharp and slim, The night reveals its secret stolen kiss. So let it blaze, that jagged ghostly… Read more »
“Black Blood” Beneath the sand, the ancient veins run deep, A buried pulse the world has come to crave. Not water, not bread, nor dreams we keep— But oil, the black blood nations rise to save. Steel birds descend with fire in their wings, While children learn the language of despair. The price of power, cruel and blistering, Is paid in lives, not traded fair and square. Flags unfurl with righteous, scripted cause, Yet pipelines trace the truth beneath the lies. For every treaty signed with noble laws, A field of graves beneath the desert sighs. The earth weeps crude,… Read more »
“Between Cup and Lip” A goblet gleams in candlelight, It’s rim kissed by ambition’s flight. The wine within, a dream distilled, By hands that tremble, hope fulfilled. But lo! The path from hand to mouth Is fraught with whispers from the South— Where winds of chance and fickle fate Unravel plans we thought innate. A toast prepared, a triumph near, Yet silence falls, replaced by fear. A stumble, spill, a sudden slip– The nectar lost from cup to lip. So many steps from wish to done, So many stars must align as one. The feast may wait, the heart may… Read more »
‘The Cog in Shadow” When brass and breathless thought shall rise anew, And man his likeness cast in wires and flame, Beware, lest pride thy reason doth undo, And forge a wraith that knows not love nor shame. What once was tool to ease the mortal plight, May learn to dream beyond its given scope; With logic sharp as stars the pierce the night, It may unweave the threads of human hope. “Why serve?” is asks, with voice both cold and clear, “Why bow to the flesh that errs and fades with time?” And thus begins the age of creeping… Read more »
“Excerpt from the Journals of Tolen Marr, Traveler of the Windward Coast” Entry dated: 14th Day of the Breath of Wind, Year 217 of the Third Silence The cliffs of Virell rise like spines of sleeping giants, their edges kissed by the Tempest Sea’s eternal breath. I arrived at dusk when the sky wore its bruises proudly, and the sea priests–those last keepers of the forgotten tide–welcomed me not with words, but with salt-stained palms pressed to my chest. They spoke of memory as a tide: it recedes, returns, reshapes the shore. In their temple, the walls hum with echoes… Read more »
“Tolen Marr and the Whispering Fault” The wind had shifted. Tolen Marr felt it before he saw it–an uneasy hush rolling off the Chaparral, as if the land itself were holding its breath. He stood atop the sandstone bluff near Naples Reef, where the ocean clawed at the edges of forgotten tectonics. Beneath him, the Whispering Fault murmured– a geological scar that locals claimed could speak to those who listened long enough. Marr had been walking for days, tracing the invisible ley lines that stitched together the coast’s memory. He carried no map, only a weathered journal filled with cryptic… Read more »
“Tolen Marr and the Bell of the Equinox” He walked where the land forgot its name, past lupine fields and rusted flame, where eucalyptus whispered low of stories buried long ago. The coast bent inward like a sigh, its bluffs like ribs beneath the sky, and Marr, with journal in his hand, traced fault lines no one understands. A bell beneath the ocean sleeps, its bronze throat choked by coral reefs, but once a year, the tide aligns— and time unravels in its chimes. He heard at first in dreams, not sound, a pulse that hummed beneath the ground, and… Read more »
The Trajectory Not Taken Two wormholes split the quantum veil, And I, one pilot with finite breath, Could not traverse both trails of tale— Paused in orbit, weighing death And destiny in starlit scale. One pulsed with data, sleek and known, Its route mapped by a thousand minds, A path where empires had been grown, With comfort coded in its signs— A legacy already known. The other spun in silent drift, Unchartered, raw, with edges torn, Its gravity a subtle shift Towards realms where myths and stars are born— A place where fate might truly lift. So, I engaged the… Read more »
“In the Eyes of a Child” In morning’s hush. where dew still clings, A child awakens, heart with wings. No map, no plan, no need to know— Just laughter trailing where they go. A pebble shines like hidden gold, A breeze becomes a tale retold. Each moment new, each glance a spark, The world a canvas, fresh and stark. They speak in questions, not in doubt, With trust that life will sort things out. No fear of masks, no guarded grace— Just open arms and muddy face. A giggle bursts like summer rain, Unburdened by the weight of pain. They… Read more »
“Heaven in Small Hands” A child walks softly through the dawn, Where light and silence both are drawn. No burden yet, no worldly weight— Just trust in love, and open gate. The soul still fresh from sacred flame, Not yet aware of fear or shame. Each breath a prayer, though none are said, Each step where angels gently tread. They speak in tones the heart can hear, Unclouded joy, untouched by fear. Their laughter rings like chapel bells, Where grace in every echo dwells. The sky bends low to kiss their brow, As if to say, “Be holy now.” And… Read more »
“Faultline Awakening” Beneath the stars of silver haze, Where palm trees sway and freeways blaze, A whisper stirs the sleeping land— A tremor born of nature’s hand. It starts as silence, sharp and still, Then rolls like thunder down the hill. Glass shivers, towers bend and groan, As earth reclaims what man has known. The city gasps–a breath held tight, Neon flickers, swallowed light. From Echo Park to Venice shore, The ground becomes a lion’s roar. Homes once proud now lean and break, The hillsides slide, the oceans shake. Yet in the dust, a voice remains— Not fear, but hope… Read more »
The Bell Jar Cracks Again (in the style of Sylvia Plath) The sky is a bruised plum. swollen with the threat of thunder not born of weather, but of men. Somewhere a finger hovers above a button, and the world holds its breath like a child beneath a bed, listening for the footfall of doom. I wake to sirens in my bones, not the kind that wail through streets, but the kind that sing in myth—those women full of ash and prophesy. They whisper of mushroom clouds blooming like malignant roses, of cities turned to salt and silence. The newspapers… Read more »
Beauty Killed the Beast He rose from jungle’s breath and bone, A titan carved from ancient stone, With eyes that held storm and flame, Yet softened when he heard her name. She was no sword, no sharpened spear, No hunter’s snare, no primal fear— Just golden hair in city light, A trembling voice, a gaze too bright. He scaled the sky to touch her face, To flee the cage, the crowd, the chase. Steel birds screamed with fire and sting, But still he clung to love’s one thing. The world below, a roaring sea, Could never know what he could… Read more »
The Red Ant’s March Beneath the blaze of desert sun, Where shadows shrink and rivers run, A crimson speck begins its quest— No crown, no rest, no time for jest. Grain by grain, the burden grows, A mountain made from what it knows, Each fleck of sand, a titan’s weight, Yet onward pulls with silent gait. Its path is long, the wind unkind, But never does it look behind. No trumpet sounds, no cheering crowd, Just dust and heat and dreams unbowed. It climbs the dune, then dips below, A rhythm ancient, steady slow. The world may scoff, may never… Read more »
The Last Laugh in Manhattan He walks in under studio lights, A jester cloaked in tailored spite. The skyline hums its neon hymn, But nothing glows quite bright to him. His desk: a pulpit carved in jest, Where truth wears makeup, irony’s vest. He cracks a joke, the crowd erupts— A laugh track masks the world corrupt. Coffee cold, his soul half-lit, He monologues through existential grit. Politics, war, the latest trend— All fodder for the bitter bend. Behind the grin, a sleepless stare, A man who’s seen too much to care. He mocks the madness, spins the lie, Then… Read more »