reqvalheroine

I saw you like I saw the sun rise.

It starts out just a small thing, just barely peeking over the horizon. Night is a stubborn mistress, an uncaring fool, both of which overstay their welcome as the sun pokes its head over the table of the sea and looks around for what lays above. Eyes are not on the top of heads, not in humans, so it takes time for you to find a way to see over, whether by grabbing a stool or simply growing taller. The sun is like you in the case of the latter; it takes its time to climb through the sky, until more than just slivers of sunlight pierce through the darkness of night.

The sea says nothing in the face of the incoming dawn, and neither can the night. I, as a mere witness, am content with watching the sun's slow ascent, your slow growth as a human child. The sun is unhurried, and so are you. The world spins on its axis, the moon brings with her the tides, and the sun slips into the sky like how you slip into my life.

Constant, yet always changing. Reliable, yet always departing. Beautiful, yet always surprising.

I wondered back then if the sun knew of its own light, its own warmth spread across the world. Does the sun love the earth, if by its brilliance alone stems the rest of life? Does it look down upon this planet, or does it admire from a distance this miracle? Perhaps the sun is simply there, oblivious to its own light, the warmth it casts down, a love so freely given that it scarcely notices the gift.

I think I know now what the sun knows. The sun is oblivious to its own radiance because it has so many other stars to compare to. The sun sees the miracle that can only blossom under its own protection, and thus it swears to devote itself to this cradle of creation. The sun burns because that is its nature, both defined by other stars, and by having come to terms with itself, it burns because it wants to burn for the sake of others.

Could the sun burn out? This must certainly be a question that has plagued philosophers and scholars for centuries; I will come no closer to an answer. If I were to consider the case where the sun were human, I believe it would burn out because humans are finite. With this in mind, to consider the inverse, then it would follow quite nicely that the sun may burn out, too.

A logician would find this reasoning flawed beyond words and not worth entertaining for even its starting premise. A romantic, on the other hand, may find this reasoning so straightforward that they may feel so inclined to inscribe it into a poem.

As for me, these are merely idle thoughts. The sun is not human, just as humans are not the sun. Such a connection is tenuous at best; all others are contrived. Still, that does not preclude the possibility that humans may reach for the sun, just as the sun has touched humanity. However, that is none of my concern.

What is of concern to me is you. You, who demonstrated to me the nature of a sun that was human. You, who showed me just what kind of human who could strive to become the sun. You, who taught me what the sun knows because the only person who could know would be you.

The only sun in this world must be you. All others must be decadence.

What a romantic thing to say. Perhaps I should take a crack at being a poet and inscribe these lines myself.

It is a dance between the sun and the earth, the night and the moon, the stars and the myriad of creatures borne of life itself. The steps are known, the music is set, and yet on the dance floor there still remains some element of chaos, a significant degree of unpredictability. The sun sails through the skies, the earth tilts on its axis, the night proceeds and recedes, the moon spins round, the stars twinkle, and creatures are born, live, and die. The only constants are that all dances must have their beginnings, and thus they will have their ends.

The sun is no exception. I have witness countless sunrises and countless sunsets, each distinct from one another despite their fundamental nature remaining unchanged. Does the sun truly change so much in a day that its light goes from that pale dawn to that rosy twilight? Must it always leave the earth only for it to ultimately return?

I say it must. If the sun is to rise, then it must also set. I say it must change. If it could not, then there would be no difference between the dusk that brings with it the uncertainty of night and the dawn that brings with it the promise of day. Perhaps even the sun requires its rest, and who better could return its gifts than the earth?

I saw you like how I saw the sun rise. In my selfishness, I must ask: When the sun sets, allow me to see you, too.