Les miracles qu’a été peint | 2 December 2015 20:21 PST Sunsets could summarize most of my life.
Memories are like sunsets. They’re so beautiful it could pain one, yet magnificent and unique in every facet. There is none other like each one. Sunsets at the very beginning aren’t that noticeable and awing. The beginning isn’t the beautiful and magical oil painting on canvas that the full sunset is later in the evening. It’s barely perceptible, and one has to have a keen eye to observe such a tiny miracle in the not-yet-pink sky. Memories eventually fade as sunsets do. Ultimately, all that is left is a distant blur of colours as of a faded sunset. Hardly does every memory last forever, as sunsets, no matter how unique or awing it was at the moment. Only, and unfortunately quite rarely, does a true memory last, as does the one true, honest, and beautiful sunset that ceases to fade from memory. One would not notice how beautiful and valuable a memory is at first, as a just-starting-to-set-sunset. At full sunset, the true beauty, glory, and magnificence is displayed for both sides – both sides of the horizon. Only then is the memory’s true value revealed to both involved. But one will not learn to truly appreciate and value the memory until, like a sunset, it has faded from view, from the horizons, from the world, from reality – long and far gone into the foggy distant. And then, once gone forever, it will come back, as yet even more beautiful, more awing, more inspirational. As does a sunset, a memory will shimmer even more radiantly in beauty and glory until it has vanished from the world, only to live solely in one’s regretful mind and soul, forever lost and faded from reality. Only in the depths of sorrow will the sunset’s glow continue to radiant and sparkle with true and remarkable beauty, love, and magnificence – but mostly regret and nostalgia.
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