A question comes back like an untimely rain.
To be a writer that writes in this gloomy rain or the one that writes during a sunsets melancholy?
The silence of a sunset, the vibrancy of its reflection sets you into a mood of sweet melancholy. A simmering disquiet.
Even though the sun sets rather quickly, at least it’s not abrupt like rain. You know when it’ll end, so it’s your choice if you want to marvel at its occurrence of death.
Your body changes colour under its reflection. From yellow to orange to gold to blue and then finally, the night ends its dance on you. The leaves become silent and your steps lighter, your thoughts become quieter and your life becomes slower.
The wind with its touch reminds you that you can be gentle with yourself, unlike the rain that strikes you to shelter. The sunset experiments at the end of itself, giving colours other than it’s yellow and the sky’s blue. It lets the sky and clouds embrace eccentricity slowly and steadily.
Like an echo of time, your surroundings change its form but still remain familiar. The trees, an illusion now, change itself while viewing the sunset with us. Even though the change is unfamiliar to them, it’s not to us.
Like a mirage, it sinks but leaves you with hope. A hope that will return tomorrow.