The Melancholy of the Sunset Overdrive

So that the Earthian skies are simply more than distance away from this grounded body, I feel the need to have my physical form consumed by evening light, so that such six o’clock radiance may decorate my tropical skin with slants of gorgeous sunset hues. And let me, in turn, use those vague and far-off colors as a new identity to glimpse the fragmented true reality, a partial reality. I must admit that this twilight infatuation (and the act of glimpsing) is just a covert operation for what I truly wish to say: that my lover, the sunset, whispers secrets to me. Secrets that ultimately seem to be critiques of absolute reality.

Absolutes are silly, but the idea of there being no absolutes either is also equally just as silly. We exist between the tensive paradox of absolute and partial lie, ruminating in both; we do/can absolute and we do/can partial. As I grow now, I begin to understand that both words are actually inching toward each other but never actually touching, similar to a tragic unknowable romance.

That is where the melancholy lies, and why I am always thinking about the totality and poetic analogy of reality, and how we often put various adjectives that come before and modify the word reality, i.e. adjective reality (virtual, consensus, hyper, etc.). Body-in-reality. Body-as-defined-by-sunset. As language-users and shapers of subjective reality, which is really (let me assume an absolute!) a chain of infinite partial meanings attempting to capture the wholeness of an absolute, let me propose a new adjective reality: sunset reality.

Meaning? The eternal transitory space of all realities that contains the ebb and flow and undulation and infinity and so-and-so and and and. I would liken it to a liminal space that as a tongue-in-cheek surprise, functions as an absolute, but all encompassing, all the time. Everything is sunset reality; everything is absolute fragmentary. Let all of everything subsume itself. Abscond with the phrase sky-as-limit! Cover the world (we are not quite yet at cosmosis levels) in the sunset reality chiaroscuro!

I much prefer this than the other adjective realities. Of course, the sunset has its other contenders. Other slants of lights. Morning is hope and despair for the new; afternoon is potential in the middle; night is neon silence. A special mention to the dawn, sunset sister, but I am not fond of beginnings.

When I am faced with the odd realization that the sunset reality is a lover incarnate, I am giddy. It-as-personification-of-partials romanticizes the beautiful mundane, the intangible real. Physical senses are not enough! The mysterious and meticulous poet-perception shall permit a juxtaposition of fantasy reality with reality reality, so as to be left with rose-tinted solutions from this gobo perception.

This is why I willingly cover myself in this obsession. This is why poetic reality is closer to sunset reality than I think, closer to other certain realities: such as Yu Xiuhua’s lover in a faraway place, Sayaka Murata’s convenience store, and Mirabai’s Krishna devotion.

How I love the stupid handsome and beautiful heavenly sphere in the six o’clock radiance, a distinct slipping found in its sunset light. I am thinking about the opening line of this essay, and I am slipping. I have seen/heard/felt/became enough analogies for it. So has everyone else.

I do worry about whether I love the sunset or rather, a more unsure truth: the hue of the light itself. But I am unfamiliar with Suhrawardi’s illuminationism. Also, I am not fond of all light. I do not obsess over electronic light, mostly. And how could I not mention light’s sister, the covetous dark? How could I not mention the covetous dark’s distant cousins, the shadows? Jun’ichirō Tanizaki In Praise of Shadows has much to say on that.

I do not have much of a conclusion, because it feels like the beginning is the end and the end is the beginning in the sunset reality. Eternal reflection time. Transitory states. Absolutes that are partial. Liminal spaces between self-generation and other-overdrive connected by obsession, a perpetual thought process. Melancholy. So that the Earthian skies are simply more than distance away from this grounded body, I feel the need to have my physical form consumed by evening light, so that such six o’clock radiance may decorate my tropical skin with slants of gorgeous sunset hues.

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