The sun's setting gold. There's a tiny ferry tutting across the harbour water, leaving a trail of white. I can see North Head illuminated, glowing because of the sunset. Rangitoto looms in the background like a guard. There are sails and cranes and buildings and people, and in the far far distance, little houses peeking through the light.
The sky's this indescribable colour of grey and blue and cyan and mauve, tinted with a blush of that fading brown. Like the whole world's awash with some nostalgic sepia. I can't help staring at that tiny boat sail back and forth, back and forth. There's someone standing at the balcony window opposite. There's someone walking along the road outside. All these things. All these people. This is the world. This is what being alive feels like. Friendships can break, love can fail, family can leave and people can pass away, but what will never disappear, are the clouds that drift past your patch of sky everyday. The sea that sparkles under the setting sun. The people that keep on walking, the boats that keep on sailing, no matter how you're feeling today; no matter what problems you're facing.
The world will keep on spinning without you, and that's the excruciating beauty of it. The grandness. Your insignificance. How tall the heavens are above you, how deep the earth stretches below you, and then there's just little, unremarkable you. Born into this world maybe by accident, maybe by chance, but definitely not by fate. Think about it. What are the possibilities of you, this exact person, existing in this world? From birth till now, every decision, every choice and every split creating infinite possible futures, pasts, and people with the same name and same parents and same history as you, but are not you.
And yet, here you sit. This precise and irreplaceable version of you that exists nowhere else in time and space. You're allowed to sit and observe the world from your own little corner. Watch the clouds darken. The sun disappear. The lights of thousands of other homes flicker on. The clatter of plates, the occasional bale of laughter. All on a backdrop of stillness. Silence. A serene, serene night, and a low mumble of of the city as it finally settles down.
A tiny flag billowing in the wind; the tap-tap of my fingers on the keyboard. And the thing that makes it all so real, a cool breeze whispering across my cheek; on it I can smell the ocean and taste the salt; hear the laughter and feel the calm of the whole city.
Like in a dream. Such a beautiful, vivid dream filled with details you could spend your whole life observing and pursuing and still never reach the end. Wouldn't it be sad to wake up from such a dream? Wouldn't it be a terrible, terrifying shame if you never got to find out where that little boat went, what it'd be like to live in a little house peaking through the setting light, how the sky would look if you were flying through it separated by only a window?
If reality is only a dream, if life is only a passing gift that we've landed ourselves with by an impossible chance, then why not make the most out of it? What else is there? Incomprehensible nothingness and otherness. We only know this life. What do feelings and problems matter on the grand scale of things? Just look at the world. It's yours to explore, to see and smell and do. Why would you ever want to waste even a second of your life on unimportant feelings and other insignificant people?
Why would you ever want to end this wonderful dream early?
