Up until now, when I close my eyes I see with vivid clarity that very sunset I saw some days ago. I’m sure the same would be true for sunrises too except that I don’t usually get to witness them given my owlish tendencies, making sunsets, by default, my favorite.
But, sunsets are not beautiful.
Beautiful doesn’t quite capture it.
I wish I could write about it in a way that would make another not see it, but feel it — for perhaps the things we see are just things as they are except for the things that they make us feel.
I wish I could write about how the colors intermingled, intertwined, coalesced into hues that made one remember all other sunsets of one’s childhood — the ones watched on a hill or under a tree after an afternoon of play, the ones that instantly created a surge of hope, innocence, blissful naiveté.
I wish I could write about the eternal canvass on which the sun painted and elegantly sprawled itself, how this time it lay untainted by the city skyline, how it hung there stationary, but projected images that changed in a literal blink of an eye.
I wish I could write about the myriad of diamonds that lay below, draping the shores, and how it mimicked the view overhead, with no intention to mock but to imitate in awe, to aspire to reflect a similar glory and beauty while being neither overpowering nor obtrusive, without stealing what does not belong to it.
I wish I could write about how perfectly discernible the vastness of all the earth at that given point in time was, how one could actually see the infinitude of infinity, how every witness could witness being whispered to of indeed how vast Life is and how tiny of a speck one’s life is, how trivial one’s greed is and how insignificant one’s woe is.
I wish I could write about it all, but the words fail me. The words fail me quite miserably.
How can a view such as that ever really adequately be put into words? When words are but shadows of the real thing? When words are inaccurate representations of what is?