I wanted to post more pictures on Facebook, but something held me back. And that is ─ remembering a time in my life when everything seemed so dark that I felt I had nothing happy to post or to show on Facebook. But the world did. So I would open my account and the timeline would be flooded with photographs of a couple in their ‘he proposed-I accepted’ pose, someone’s honeymoon snaps that captured every nuance of the sea in Bali, as well as every corner of their luxurious suite. Someone was climbing the Kilimanjaro in Tanzania, and you could see their tired, happy poses, and someone else was sea diving in Mauritius. People in pretty dresses, blow-dried hair and generally, happy things and happy people in happy places.
I have also realised in hindsight that the bit that is so magical about sunsets is also what happening around us, and not just in the skies. People returning from work, families laid out in parks and beaches, mountains and boulders on holidays, moments of leisure, of stolen kisses and romances. Of the boiled and salted peanuts enjoyed on a vacation while watching the sun go down, or a relatively dull day lifted up by the sheer brilliance in the sky, and the sense of community, a sort of shared experience that we get when you find that many other people are enjoying and rejoicing, sharing a similar pleasure as they watch the sun going down.
I know it sounds cheesy to start a piece by some very amateurish lines of verse. But some places are so magical, so other worldly that words begin to form, without effort, arranging themselves in neat lines like conscientious schools girls during morning assembly. Glendalough or the Valley of the Two Lakes is one such place.