CCXVIII - growing old is like that i think

There comes a time in every sunset when you decide to turn away, from the phosphorescent, coruscant, illumination. It's hard to imagine a sky so lovely, peach, orange, red hues, blue, purple and forest around the corners. Every tuft and nook in the clouds taking an edge of light, blobbing shadows each to their own measure, glow and burble. Even to the eyes, the most direct of senses, it is marvelous, effulgent, unbelievable. If you close your eyes, the memory is magnificent, towering.

Better to end it early, than suffer an ignoble, fading exit. So you turn away, and your step is heavy, slow, grave. Pebbles crunch lightly as they roil and resettle under your feet, grinding into the gravel. Half shoeprints form, crumble. At the intersection, the bustle of traffic, industrial light directed from polished headlamps, little plaintive squeaks of rubber brakes, once again gain your attention.

But there comes a moment, just before you round the bend, when you yearn to turn and see again the lighted sky, catch another sight. It's still there, isn't it? It's still a physical sliver of the world that exists wherever the sun slips just under the spherical horizon of the earth, cloud, elevation, incline, humidity, foliage, etc. permitting. A paltry few seconds ago, it was all there, and magnificence can't just evaporate. It means something to be great, to comprise art, by some law of the universe that is the self-constituted makings of immortality.

But don't check, it's still better to go on, home. Your impression, reverie, nostalgia does the rest, forever in the visual idea. Keep a geist of the glory in your heart, cherished. Remember old friends, past loves, forlorn stuff in forgotten songs. And step forward with balance in your heart.