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As much as I love the gloominess of a barely autumn-like Los Angeles, I must admit I do not enjoy seeing the sun going down so early.

I never get to savor it.

One of the things that made me fall in love with this place was the golden color of the sunrises and sunsets, and some of the most beautiful things I’ve ever lived here happened during those hours. It’s the time of the day I know I’m alive so when the sun doesn’t rise or set like it used to, I don’t take it lightly.

Regardless of my mild-sun loving ways, I love the grey (ish) season.

I love to wear my vegan leather jacket and continue to wear my flannels that now, look much more fitting than before.

The thing is, I love the dying sun.

It’s as if during its last gasp for air, the sun chooses to send its last golden rays out with a kind of intensity that aims to comfort and cause affliction. Its message is clear: “you will need me again and you will miss me until then, miss me terribly”.

I’ve heard it one too many times and I feel just as hopeless as I’ve felt the first times regardless of how many more times I’ll feel the same way and how many more times I’ll wish to simply let it go.

You see, I’m not protesting, like so many Angelenos do and giving the sky of grey that reminds me so much of my hometown a so-and-so look, I’m inviting it to stay. Instead of complaining or feeling blue I gasp for this somewhat crisp air and wonder if, somewhere else, the sun is shining its golden, desolate rays upon somebody who, like me, missed it heavily for a while.

I wonder if she or he feels lost without it, like I do ~

*picture by moi

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