On a journey bound for nowhere in search ever of the sun, we run. We seek the sun as it dips to the horizon, we chose it, for we know not where it goes. Seekers of the sun we journey forth. Our journey is a journey, our mission, and our dreams the same. We seek the home of the sun when it sips below the horizon. But we know the background is an artificial line. It changes with each mile ridden with each step taken. The horizon keeps moving further and further away. But the sun, dipping below the horizon, has a home. Must it have a home, right? There has to be a place the sun goes at the end of its day, at the end of its cosmic journey around itself.
Where the sun, our sun greets the dog and feeds the cat. Where the sun, our sun sits in stocking feet on a chair and reads the paper, perhaps, wisely sipping scotch and wondering why politics fill the paper. Do I not, the sun wonders, shine enough light to remove politics? The sun smiles and turns on the radio. Perhaps it is preset to easy listening or possibly smooth Jazz. Or maybe on the day, the Blues. The sun is sitting in the room, a newspaper in its lap, arguing with the moon on the merits of the blues from Memphis or the Blues from Chicago. Did the Chieftan rule, or was it one of the many Memphis dreamers playing the colors in a song for all to hear?
The sun and the moon often argue. She was leaning over the fence that separates day from night, just past the edge of the horizon. They yell back and forth. Thunderous arguments about the way the moon works, or the overcast days the sun takes off. We chase that knowledge to know what the sun does in its off time. When the switch set to off and the sun puts down its glasses and relaxes. Does the sun watch television or now, does the sun stream Netflix. In between solar flares, catching episodes of Sweet Magnolia, and Lost in Space. Contented, sitting in its chair, waiting for the next time it, the sun, can yell at the moon. You know the sun remains for that…
This work is Copyright DocAndersen. Any resemblance to people real or fictional in this piece is accidental.