"It'll Be Fine"

I’ve been bored for a while today, and I just got the urge to write something incredibly and meticulously detailed. So, I looked up a random painting online, and just like in English class, wrote a short story on it. Here’s the painting:
My eyes flashed open at the feeling of foamy, wet, cold hand wrapping itself around my unsuspecting ankle. Quickly recoiling, I moved further away from the surf and pulled my poncho tighter around me, the cold quickly setting in now that I was awake and well aware of it. I tried to get comfortable, but instead was pushed aside, the victim of a prank pulled by a cruel wind spirit. Trying to stop myself, my hands were caught in the red folds of plastic that was my poncho, and I caught the ground with the side of my face. I sat up. I tried to get the grains of sand out of my mouth by spitting and running my tongue over my lips, but that only resulted in more sand in my mouth. Giving up on the sand in my mouth, I tried to get the rest of the sand on my face off. I immediately stopped when I felt the sharp pain of a single granule being dragged across my eyeball. My eye watered. Then the tears started falling. Now from both eyes. As my throat got choked up, I realized that the tears where not only from the sand. I tried to stop, but it just kept coming. The memories of the past few weeks washed over me like the waves now crashing on shore. I couldn’t believe how this whole situation had occurred. I mean, the money was mine! She took it from me – all of it! The house, the cars…everything. It was all gone, now in the grasp of that evil woman whom I used to love so dearly. And now look at me. In this sorry state. Sleeping on a beach in the dead of winter, no shelter, no money, no possessions to my name any longer save the clothes on my back and the few provisions in my torn blue backpack. I looked at my garments, the only things separating me from the nasty bite of the winter wind. The red poncho I wore was no longer really red, more of a pinkish color, faded by the endless days in the sun, hung on the rack on the lanai that used to be mine. Ours. My jeans were comfortable, but didn’t do much of anything against the weather this time of year. I got up, suddenly spurred by anger, then realization. Why sit there and feel sorry for myself? What was the point? That wouldn’t do a thing. I began to walk down the beach, feeling the sand between my toes. I smiled at the irony. The thing that had been the object of pain for me a few minutes ago now was the object of my pleasure. The sun began to rise, and I looked out at the sparkling ocean, and mixture of different hues of greens and blues. I looked at the horizon, at the half-circle of reddish light rising from behind the ocean. Today was a new day. And it was time I claimed something for my own. Carpe diem.

That's Me Ben