Beauty

It’s like the sun only wants you to look at it at its prettiest. At noon, you try to look up but you won’t be able to stare straight at the sun. It blinds you with its rays even before you set your eyes upon it. Its pale yellow sobersided vivacity then, cannot impress the blue and white sky.

But as it sets, you stare at the crimson ball that takes the defenseless sky as canvas, painting it an iridescent hue. Lowering itself down almost as if it acknowledges its own beauty and, showing off to the world the sun glances back and smiles, saying “look at me now.”

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