Description - The Currituck Beach lighthouse

The Currituck Beach lighthouse was precious. At the first sight, far from about 80 miles away, when I drove along Hatteras Cape's palm tree trace next to Atlantic Ocean, the merely finger-tip-long darkened skyline of the 162 feet high red brick lighthouse pinned onto the remote woodland, shredding under the looming shadow of clusters of thick clouds. As I approached closer, the Fresnel lens located at the peak of the lighthouse was impressively translucent. It was where the navigation signal light originated at night. The front side of the lighthouse was generally crowded with visitors, who heeded the steps and strolled into the somber architecture with awe. The helix, gunpowder-colored narrow stairs had sporadically hollowed-out patterns upon them, which might be the evidence of abrasion formed from history. On the way upright to the top, there were six Gothic radius windows closed and stiff, hardly could sunlight outside penetrate through a great many of chestnut ashes particles adhered to the window glass. During the journey of 220 steps climbing, people's breathing were mostly rapid, some visitor even forgot to exhale when they peered out through the ashes. Their pace were uncertain, and eager. The air was stuffed in the building; every time I inhaled, it incredibly felt as if I breathed the thick ghost of ancient times that still wandering in this gloom lighthouse. Sunlight and invisible ashes mixture hit my heart pumping; then, I took the final step to the platform on the most top, feeling refreshed so suddenly that I was numb to vertigo. At the very peak of the Currituck Beach lighthouse, the primitive landscape, the uninhabited beach, and the azure ocean were exposed under the brightness of daytime. It was not hard to imagine the viewing at nighttime, all dreadfully dark and desperately desolating; the warm, orange ray of this lighthouse was the only light source. Sacred, solitary, and standing.