Yesterday evening I watched the magnificent death of the day. At sunset, the rainy sky broke off from the edge. Then this heavy lid was dispersed by the powerful golden rays, and turned into light mist-like pink clouds within minutes. As I watched a golden egg softly hatching behind the clouds above the mountains, I realized the sun was not set yet, but still exhibiting its power and beauty. The vast blue showed again, the golden flock of clouds was slowly floating north, as if the whole sky was marching. The colors and shapes changed completely every few minutes. I did not know what would happen next. This is the show on stage every day outside my window, but I do not usually watch.
The sun was finally set, though the gold, then the pink, then the last fire remained on the edge of the mountains for a long while. So the day died. But on another part of the world, the sun is rising at this moment, and someone is saluting the magnificent birth of a new day, when the first rays are lighting up the prairies that have been sleeping in comfortable darkness.
So our part of the world is now revolving away from the sun, with all these buildings and trees, which seem so still and eternal, but only exist on a revolving round surface, with no guarantee of a tomorrow. The permanence is pretence. The security is a vulnerable promise. However, we live in relativity, so we define permanence and security within our limit of time and space. So it is fine. Within this scope we have woven the complicated net of human life, and are entangled in it, and will never look beyond. Beyond life’s troubled kingdom there is only death’s infinite dark cold space.
Tomorrow will come. The sun will be back in a few hours. Summer is coming. Night is short. This is not faith. This is experience.
The day did come, on schedule. A fine day.