The sun, how violent it is! Angry, hot, illuminating and intrusive!
See that building, and see the golden wash of sun that paints it. I see a tree, it's body blackened by the sun behind it, streaming through the bare branches, causing the plant to tremble and breathe, absorbing the soothing glow. The mundane surface of this room I'm trapped in suddenly comes to life with yellow reflections. Light stimulates the walls and makes the chairs gleam and smile.
The words on a page crawl off their two dimensional reality and spill onto the desk. A pool of sunlight sweeps them away, pinching and prodding at their serifs, blowing them into a cloud of language, billowing up in a sunbeam.
The sun gets everywhere. It encourages me, and blunts my mood when it leaves. I seek the sun, trying to match it's descent with my eyes, as if knowing where it's going will lengthen the time it takes to get there.
I don't want to chase after it, but I know it's important. Should I wait somewhere, baiting my breathe, eagerly hoping that it'll return tomorrow? It should be here. It's always here. Do I really matter? I can't change the sun. I love the sun, but that changes nothing. All I can do is remain here, anticipating the daily scour of the sunlight, insignificantly appreciating something so many times greater than me.
