It was a warm summer day following a wild New Year's Eve in Auckland, and life was moving slower yet again. I spent a leisurely morning at the house, finishing my writing for Greenpeace, pausing occasionally to work away at the mounds of Christmas ham left by my Kiwi relatives over the holidays. For the first time in weeks, things had finally calmed down - quieted down for that matter - and I found myself with the island to myself once more.

I spent the afternoon running dusty trails up the coastline, and chugging my way up inland hills through wine country, roasting under the hot southern Sun. Letting my mind wander, I started to reflect over the time I've spent traveling thus far - nearly four months, four months, three of which spent solely on the North Island of New Zealand. It's as if I'm no longer a tourist. My environment has gradually but surely become familiar, and my everyday life has its own rhythm to reflect it. It's a blessing and a curse to find such harmony and balance in one's life; yes it breeds a constructive lifestyle for the most part, but on the other hand, that very same comfortable routine can slyly breed complacency and ultimately staleness.

I finished my run optimistic, head rushing high with endorphins, and made my way up the cutback trail to the beach house. I focused on my breathing, calming my strained heart while the gentle sea breeze cooled the sweat on my back. Physical activity is one routine I know to forever remain a constant in my life. Yes, there's an inherent madness that goes along with it; that obsession with a regular sweat or life, and the inevitable piece-of-shit feeling that goes with a day skipped, but ultimately all of the good outweigh the bad. It makes me happy and keeps me from eating myself into oblivion, so we'll take it.

I made it up to the house and stretched on the back porch, wallowing in my own filth for only five-or-so minutes attempting to relax my tense legs and quickly jumped through the shower. Drying off, I had a look at my watch: 5:20, not quite dinner time. I grabbed an IPA out of the fridge and popped the cap, taking a pull while I walked out to the back porch, plopping my ass in an adirondack overlooking the calm ocean below. That's when it dawned on me - why do I insist on setting a dinnertime for myself? Hell, why do I insist on any sort of scheduling for myself?

Even more self-contempt washed over me as I opened the fridge door, pulling out one of my ready-marinated chicken breasts; how many times have I eaten grilled chicken thus far down here? Yes, I'm easing back on red meat and yes, I'm also ballin' on quite a proverbial budget, but for the last three months my dinners at home have been nothing but monotony. I rubbed some chili flakes on the plump, free-range breast and threw it on the grill, retreating back to my beer at the opposite corner of the porch.

I finished my beer watching slow, rolling waves quietly crash on the low beach. Down below a man was walking his dog across sand exposed by withdrawal of the tide. From my hilltop perch, the furry companion looked like nothing more than an ant, sprinting over pools left by receding water. The dog didn't care about routine. He didn't care about what was coming tomorrow. He was lost in the moment with his best friend.

I ate my dinner still thinking about that dog on the beach, wondering how it was possible to be so blissful with so little. By the time I was finished, the pair of beach-goers were long since gone, and the sky above had shifted from a radiant teal to royal blue. I lazily scrubbed my dishes and plopped on the couch, scrolling arbitrarily through Instagram, letting my mind begin to wander until fifteen-or-so minutes of social media ingestion roll by and my eyes drift off to an even more colorful sky. By about 8:30 the hues of blue above have blended in layers of purple, fuschia, red and orange, as the sun has begun its slow descent into the horizon.

I felt gravitated back outside again; maybe it was a natural urge, but more than likely it was the subtle thought of that dog on the beach hours ago that motivated me to reach for my windbreaker, but before I knew it, I was navigating that same cutback trail down to the beach once more. What I could see from the top of the hill was gorgeous no doubt, but I knew I could find an even more spectacular sunset view on the beach below.

It felt good deviating from my routine, even slightly. When I would normally slump around the beach house, telling myself I was writing, in actuality, I'd be trying to pirate Mr. Robot. Taken my procrastination and monotony into account, the sand between my toes felt liberating as I trekked west on the beach, childishly skipping between large ponds left by the midday ocean. The darkening spectrum of the evening sky danced across the puddles, painting a mosaic of the gorgeous sunset above. Still, I pressed on, hoping to catch the best possible view.

I walked past the midway point of the beach wondering about the supposed "green flash," talked about in old romantic sailing stories. Was it even possible that the sun would cast a flash of green at the very moment it left the horizon? Or would everything just fade quite gradually to darkness? I kept walking, looking down the beach ahead, scanning for a nice place to watch, ultimately settling on a small outcropping of rocks. Snaking my way past clumps of mussels and puddles I made my way to the coast and sat down, finally turning to face the sunset, but to my dismay, it had already disappeared.

By the time I started day-dreaming about the flash of green and what I would see from the sunset I forgot to simply look out and witness the very thing I was venturing out to see. I couldn't believe it. I sat on the rock, ass falling asleep, wondering how I could've been so oblivious. By now the sky had darkened far away from red or even maroon to deep shades of violet leading to the black of night. As darkness fell upon the beach I came to an ironic realization; I had simply spent so much time hoping, imagining and anticipating a gorgeous sunset that I had all-but distracted myself from witnessing the damn thing!

Looking back on my dumb-ass sunset stroll the point I'm trying to get across is the double-edged sword of our forward thinking nature. We as humans are blessed with the gift of foresight - of knowing when shit is going to hit the fan or the gift of preparing for new experiences - but sometimes that very same gift can distract us from the everyday lives we collectively lead. Yes, it's always good to have a plan, and while prior planning may prevent piss-poor performance, living in the moment provides a happier life. Take a lesson from that dog bolting up the beach:

Carpe - fucking - Diem.