Why is it that the meager 20 minutes of sunset always seems so beautiful?

Is it because we are use to the burning sun?

Or is it because the darkness scares us?

Do we long to drink in the sky’s colors?

Or run our fingers through the precious, precious sunbeams?

The ones that get caught in the trees and their absences is marked by shadow?

Is the gold color of the air drawing us?

The air tastes just right.

The way I remember it when I was a child.

Playing games with my dad.

On the play set that he built for me.

With his own hands.

Or is it mystery?

As the sun dissolves into the ground, is something questioning its reappearance,

Because nothing else is dependable?

Or are we scared?

The darkness of the night, even while the sky is sprinkled with diamonds,

Sends a chill down my spine.

Even with someone standing next to me.

The fear that someone is there,

But you can really never see them.

Only catch glimpses within the dusk.

Or could it be we all secretly desire to be artistic?

The purple and orange of evening makes us think,

Even if we dare not admit it.

Do we all desire to sit and think,

Using the puffs and streaks of beauty as our inspiration?

How many, many ways the clouds trick us,

By reconstructing into something more beautiful with every sunset.

Or could it be God?

Trying to give us a gift?

In-between the long, expectances that bloom from the day

And the fright and rest that tags along with night,

Could the Almighty be slipping in a hint of what is to come?

What is to be expected?

Or are we being punished?

A sort of taunting with what we will only seldom experience on earth?

Or could spirits be teasing us differently?

Showing us our faults, merely through an unappreciated miracle.

I don’t know.

But I do know that I’ll watch the sunset.