The sun always sets. It’s always an end, another day done, another gift gone. Thrown on a pile of things you can never again hold. It may slide to the side, carelessly tossed and quickly forgotten. It may land right in its place, thrown with sparking precision, a boomerang that will always come back to you but never stay. Maybe instead, it will land and instantly sink, too heavy to stay on the surface, too weak to bear its own weight. Sink to the bottom and stay there, out of sight, out of your misery but never out of its own.
Or, it will land where it should – the perfect throw – and stay perched at the top of your growing tower. But it can’t stay there and it won’t, because another end is coming, a blink or an eternity later. Another sun will set, always the same but different, and soon it will lie covered up like all those that came before.
The sunset is also a beginning, but it’s of night, and night doesn’t matter. Night is a timeless place where I’m forced to wait until another day lets me in. Nights are full of needing, full of dreaming. Of worlds inside my head that no one else can see, where no one will ever be unless I guide them there, and I can’t do that in the dark.
Perhaps I should begin watching the sunrise instead.