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The sun came to us yet again, as we knew it would.

The dark and cold surrendered so slowly, slowly, to light and warmth, even before that brilliant disc showed itself in the welcoming sky.

Dim became bright, colors grew vivid, sounds were heard, first few and muted, then many and loud, and the stillness quickened. What hadn’t yet been came to be, and grew and flowered. There was meeting and parting and purpose to fulfill, places to go and things to see and do and love.

The sun rose to the peak of its destined arc, and with it’s decline, so declined all that it brought. Yet the evening was expected and welcome for the rest it promised.


In the dark cold night, I lit a fire, for I missed the light and warmth and the hopeful, busy activity. I wanted to keep hold of it through the night.

 As fires do, it began small and promising, then grew and flourished into an intense chaos of sound and activity, power and satisfaction. It was it’s own purpose, grand and glorious.

I was captured by it. It fascinated me. It filled me. I let myself become it. I let it become me.


But like the sun, my fire had its zenith. I had nothing left to feed it and the inexorable decline began. Unlike the reliable sun, this decline promised no rest, no recovery. The fate of a fire is extinction, a final end to all its light and warmth and hope and purpose. All gone, to never return.


I watched in complete despair, feeling great loss with each dying ember, each disappearing flicker of light, until darkness and cold took their ultimate victory. I then knew that tomorrow’s sun was for others, and not for me.