Sunrise but Sunset

I walked alone along the edge of the world, where the whisper of waves met the breath of the wind. 

My feet traced a path where sand should have been, yet ahead, only a wall stood between me and the sea. 

In the distance, a light began to bloom— the sun rising slowly like a secret too beautiful to hold. 

Round and radiant, it floated on the horizon, painting the sky with soft strokes of orange and gold. 

But I was not alone in that moment of wonder. 

Crowds had gathered, eyes wide, phones raised like prayers. 

They were all chasing the same light, trying to catch dawn and keep it in a frame. 

I tried too—lifted my phone, aimed my lens. 

But heads and shoulders crowded the scene. 

Each time I clicked, the picture was blocked, each moment missed as if the morning mocked. 

Then something strange: the sun sank again, the sky darkened. 

Then it rose once more, only to fall back into shadow once again. 

I stood still, confused—was this sunrise or sunset? 

Was I watching a beginning, or chasing an end I hadn’t met? 

I climbed the wall, seeking a higher view, escaping the crowd just to get closer to what was true. 

There was no sand, no gentle slope— only stone, dropping straight into the sea below. 

And there I stood, at the edge of thought and tide, where nothing soft remained to hide. 

I took photo after photo, hands shaking in the breeze, but the images came out hollow, never at ease. 

And though the sun had risen high in the sky, the clouds still hung low, like sheets drawn over light. 

It glowed faintly, a sphere behind white veils, shining but hidden, present yet pale. 

And I, standing on that edge, could only wonder— was this a dream, or the mirror of a heart left under?