You climb to get closer, and in like manner so she sinks. She descends gradually, lowers her fiery eyes into a gentle gaze, and eventually, at the convergence of the ethereal, you no longer look up towards her — she of might, she of light. You realise that at that point, you and her are level, and at that point, you are the closest you will ever get to her in 24 hours. She realises this too, and seems to linger.
Now this is what the day has been for. This coming together. If you had a good day, you tell her. If you had a bad day, you tell her. She does not praise, she does not rebuke.
But while she of might and light appears to be tame and lame, she is no less cunning, no less proud. She demands your attention, for if you are not careful and look away, she takes it to heart. Now your hurried little mind catches itself, and urges your eyes back to her. But lo, she has gone! And now you both grow apart, and you sigh, the ensuing breath the first since she approached.
These are how evenings should be spent — by attempting to shorten the distance between yourself and the sun.
We shared this evening on a mountain, with a couple of girls from the distant city who also happened to be there at the meeting of star and dust. We shared awkward smiles, and secretly eavesdropped on each others’ conversations, which, to an extent, was constructed for that very purpose.
Now that she’s gone, we turned our eyes earthwards and hastened down, down to our car, down to dinner, down to our homes, and down to our lives which provided what the sun couldn’t — despair.