What a beautiful sunset, I said to myself. The sky was awash with the shade of infant skin wiped of blood, bruised a little blue in parts. It was as though a seraphic infant had spread wings. I looked for traces of the sun that had just left…but it was only the sky stretched beyond where the eyes could see. Skies are like that.
What a beautiful sunset, I said again. I went close to the window, closer, closer and saw a patch of grey. I stood on my toes since it was high. That was the real window. It showed me the grey of the sky. The rest was the tinted light brown. The large portion intact that misled me into believing the sunset was pink like an infant with wings. The reality was that the sky was overcast. There is beauty in that, too. But it is not the beauty of sunset that promises baby dawn burps. It is the beauty of the possible, the maybe, the showers, the dull stupor of smokey eyes and smoking clouds.
I have lived with this window for years. I knew it was tinted. Then why did I believe in a false sunset today?