6.30 in the country

I don’t know what it is about dusk. It’s something beautiful and mysterious that makes me feel whole. Dusk in the city is lovely, but dusk in the country is an enchanting experience. Perhaps that’s only because it’s a rare occurrence for me, having been born and raised in the city. Perhaps country-dwellers find it mundane or banal.

6:30 in the country feels like my heart is really beating and I’m conscious of it. City lights glittering in the distance remind me how important it is to slow down once in a while. Where I come from, the land rolls with hills abounding in lush plantations of tea. My grandfather’s house is at the top of a hill. Outside, there used to be a long plank of wood placed on two shorter pieces of wood, to serve as a bench. It has since been removed. Sitting out there at twilight in the regality of nature is a feeling that cannot be overstated.

Everything seems to come together at dusk, and I can’t explain why. All I know is that purpose ceases to be a theory and meaningless things fade away, like the sun. Somehow, there is always a distinctively haunting aura. I can never shake the feeling of being a very, very small piece to the puzzle. It’s funny, because I feel that I have a role to play; yet on the grand scale I know that there are such greater things in the world that I shouldn’t overestimate my importance. Have you ever felt big and small all at once? Invincible yet powerless?

The silhouettes at this time are magical. It seems almost unjust to attempt to capture and trap them digitally. (You must let them be free. You must let them roll on to their end; you must not hold them back.) As the hazy pink sky turns dark, I often get nostalgic for a feeling – one that has no name, and wistful about the future. It feels strange yet empowering. It’s a calm whirlwind. It’s a noisy spring. Dusk is full of paradoxes. Dusk is full of life. Dusk is full.

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