The Rising Sun

His body was fragile, but not his intellect; he had the strength to write his thoughts, a younger associate spoke them. With quill shaking in hand, he scribbled that sometimes painters had difficulty deciding whether a sun was rising or setting. “That chair,” he wrote, motioning to the large, darkened chair at the front of the room as his words were read, “carved and lacquered, has only a sun with its rays. No clues or cues as to morning or evening. Should it be painted yellow or crimson?” For the longest time, he couldn’t decide if the day was beginning or ending.

Yesterday there were three people that I needed; three people through which I found a good portion of my earthy self-worth. One of those just left. Someone that would never leave me has left. Left ugly and completely and without a spoken reason. I’m clueless and devastated.

The light of my day has changed. But is the sun rising or setting?