Gazing at the sun

Gazing at the sun. We people love it. Kick back on the beach grasping a cold beer, toes in the warm sand, grilled fish on its way, golden rays on the water, Manu Chao on the air. We're compelled by the colours. We can't help staring straight at that fiery ball as it gets bigger and redder and slips off the edge of the earth. You can imagine our most ancient, primitive ancestors doing the same thing. It's like our bodies know that ball of flame disappearing below the horizon is the source of all life, and we watch it go hoping it will come back.

So why don't we do this when we're NOT on holiday? How many times have you sat and watched the sun set in your home town? Could our failure to watch the sunset be the source of all the melancholy of routine life?

In my town, the dying red streaks of sunlight hit a glass telephone box that contained a man. He was describing the immaculately paved street, the neatly cut grass on the sidewalk and the water trickling neatly down the gutters. He was a Chinese man. The plastic receiver connected to wires that ran deep underground and underwater, past the bay and beyond the setting sun. I ran past the telephone box, breathing hard and blinking sweat and sunlight.