"One day," you said to me, "I saw the sunset forty-four times!"
And a little later you added: "You know, one loves the sunset, when one is so sad..." "Were you so sad, then?" I asked, "on the day of the forty-four sunsets?" (Antoine de Saint-Exupéry - The Little Prince)
I have always been a sunset person. I have loved the flirtatious colour and the passion, the thought that the day has gone and the night is to come. It is true that one loves the sunset, when one is so sad. I have been the kind of girl who would stop, no matter where I was and what I was doing and watch the sun fall asleep. One day I was told, after I had made a rather annoyed friend pause for the fifth day in a row to watch the sunset, that my infatuation was absurd - the sunset was there yesterday, and it will be there again tomorrow. Despite this, it made me incandescently happy, and rather than begin to get dark, the world would begin to shine.
Yesterday however, I think I had a secret affair with the sunrise. The Dawn and I caught each other's eye, and came to a perfectly silent understanding. It is true that mostly in the past I’ve have only seen the sunrise through the lids of my ignorantly closed, fast asleep eyes. But I plan to meet with her more often, wide awake in my drowsy, innocent morning naivety. My moment with her made me realise that my relationship with the sunset was not much more than lust.
The sunset is lust, and the sunrise is the fabled and misunderstood concept of love. The sunrise is the time of sleepy eyed innocence. The sun has not yet fully revealed the sins of the night, and the day is yet to blaze and burn. The sunrise is the quintessential feeling of hope. One knows that anything could happen today, and the sense of the unknown is arousing and inspiring.
The dawn is the first few bars of a familiar melody, played in contented, undemanding silence.