Mundane

What's on my mind right now:

The light shining in my eyes when I'm walking along the beach. At first, there's just seagull sounds and my feet padding through the sand. But I'm interrupted when I look up to see where I'm going by a distraught-looking girl sitting on the lifeguard's post.

She's smoking, but she can't be much older than I am. 

14, 15, and she's smoking. Out in public. 

She looks angsty, upset. Off-hinged. I glare, because I can't really see her all that well. The sun's still blinding.

"Hi," I think about saying. Or maybe, "Can I bum a cigarette off you?"

Both sound stupid, especially since I've got a half-full pack in my bag, so instead I put headphones in my ears and move on, watching seagulls fight over a pizza crust as I walk.

I think about the dead seagull I saw about 7 minutes back. The circle of rocks around him. 

But there's nothing particularly productive to say.

Nothing particularly important. 

I saw a girl and a dead bird today.

I took a walk.

I listened to music.

Even the most profound accomplishments, the most interesting experiences, can be broken down into mundane, every-day things.