Writing the sky

I hope to be your sunset

Sunset clouds:
Pink poetry
Purple prose

I promise to still be here tomorrow

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I love the sky. Equally, I love words. Sometimes, when I'm alone with a novel or a poem or an essay – and the outside world melts around me – words become my sky. I watch them alter perspectives and drift. Fixated.

Writers reveal their own shades and weathers. Clouds travel – come apart and collide; colours gracefully glide. Each unique version of the sky is vital, remembered, beautifully alive. And if I’m to be raw with you, then I confess: I hope to be your sunset. A complicated, temporary, dreaming, liminal blur.

I know things darken and at times that includes my mind. I attempt to keep my storm inside a teacup; written sentences insist on being the far more powerful, ever-expanding light… seen on the horizon. Sunset light unfolds and performs. An increase in oranges, pinks and purples waving with a certain softness, vowing to return. It changes, dressed differently, carrying the weight of that day. But it’s always a sunset, wanting to be more than a glimmer. An offering, perhaps. Something to stay for.

A sunset could be the reason you came out in the first place. You wrapped your body in knitted layers to watch hues unravel this evening, even though you knew words would come to a gradual end. You whispered that it’s worth it. Lovely, messy paragraph-clouds danced a tale as old as time, praying that’s the truth.

Somebody else takes charge of twilight, and they write it in a way that makes it a favourite. The most special time of day. You see, we’re all a favourite of someone’s. We simply can’t exist to captive everyone – just the ones who really want to see us. Maybe you want to see me, and I want to see them. Later, you’ll join me in running towards them too.

There’s a girl playing in sky’s fallen, freezing snow; a couple dancing in grey’s gorgeous rain. Someone starts their day cycling under a rising run; at the same time, another is sung to sleep by sunrise, their longed for lullaby. A boy is terribly afraid of the dark; his classmate yearns for it, naming stars like they’re gospel. He insists it’s the best part of existence, he’d be horrified by Sweden’s summer sky – shunning the midnight sun. A woman adores loud thunder, while her partner quietly reaches for headphones. One sibling watches and counts cirrus clouds, as their twin craves and delights in clear azure. There’s a sweet soul praying to see a rainbow, like it would be their personal promise of hope as they grieve. A summer lover chases sunshine through plane journeys; the pilot only cares for clouds when he’s up amongst them. Life continues below as they’re flying – what a life, what a world, what a sky.

I read comforting mist, sink into twilight, allow my brain to be inked by visions of noctilucent clouds. I lay awake as somebody paints the night before my eyes in poetry – its starry constellations gifts on pages. I read my counterpart, sunrise, and feel grateful. It’s good to be acquainted on this morning’s enchanting occasion.

I’ll write the sky later, I’ll take my turn with the quill. I’ll share it with beloved sunset friends. I’ll become pink and purple as the sun takes some space from this hemisphere. I’ll hold your hand and be hopeful because writing finds the best of me, here for you as an open letter. Immersed in the present. Sometimes you write back.

Some way or another, don’t we all love talking to the sky?

An unedited sunset from 8 years ago – I still remember it, and how it made me feel. I had to screenshot the photos from my Instagram, but hopefully I’ll find the originals again 💜

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Writer or not, which version of the sky are you?

If you enjoyed this, you might like this piece from a writer I consider to be the best kind of sunrise, Georgia Jones:

Sunrises and Sunsets

And these from me:

smiley cloud :)

Blue hour