I love sunsets, who doesn't? Poets use it to symbolize a going-over-to-the-verge, like aging, or death. But as beautiful as sunsets are, so are aging and death. Though as yet, of course, I still wanna be where I am today, gathering rosebuds while I may.
It's true one may experience a sinking feeling looking at the sunset as it transforms from soft pastel to raging brilliant to dark. But it also gives a feeling of serenity, of home.
I am so fortunate to be living where I have lived in the past ten years because I see sunsets from my windows. The sky gradually turns orange just beyond, behind the thick leaves of the Norfolk trees, or on top of the mountains.
I love it so when the orange and the purple interplay with the clouds. Just because of this scenery I resolve that the world is a beautiful place to live in, and I don't wanna leave just yet. I wanna witness a million more sunsets, anywhere.
Sunsets are elusive poems, they are never the same each time I look at the western skies. How do you preserve the memory of a sunset when it changes everyday? ##