Maybe the Sun Remembers

What if we never dream of love lost or love hoped for and never feel pain and were never reminded, as the first rays of sunlight emerge from under the skyline? What if we never wake up wondering and hoping and losing all over again when the sun plunges deep into the ocean?

But the sun never complains about rising and setting, nor does it whine about the ferocity of noon and the darkness of the night. It rises and falls, but never falters, never weakened or repressed. It only rages like the ball of furious energy it was born, out of nothing, to be.

But the sun wasn’t birthed with markings of pain and laced with the unrestrained strength of memory. It doesn’t love and lose or dream nor remember. It has never felt the touch that tingles down the skin, soft and fleeting but never forgotten. It cannot comprehend the distance of nearness that’s still a universe away. It has no midnight fantasies of having held on to and kept love that’s abruptly lost upon waking.

And yet, what do I know of the sun’s dreams in the night? Maybe the stars are its yearning, as they flood the sky while the sun is deep down under. Maybe it knows more about distance, and knows the full breadth and gravity of living a universe apart. And maybe it remembers, and maybe all that fury and all that rage are nothing more but the torture of memory.