I have always been drawn towards the rising and setting sun. In this, I am like all the other human beings, and animals, and birds, and flowers, and leaves, and all life, if I may add. I have never seen the rising or setting sun in the city where I work and live, not even once. I used to work and live at other places too, but I can claim having seen at least the sunset, if not the sunrise even there. In Kasi and Dimapur had I seen the best sunrises of my life. The sun rises there from behind Gangaji and the Naga Hills respectively. Did I witness the event in Udaipur? No. The setting sun? Ah! That’s another case. I have seen the setting sun at all the three places.
There are people I know who associate the attraction to the setting sun with melancholia. Did Shelley love his state? I am quite sure that he was loving it in his “Smiling they live…” lines. No, I am not talking about anhedonia of the romantic poets. I think that creative writing does produce some sort of pleasure hormones even in melancholic writers. The setting sun does have some kind of cultural or unconscious associations with death or end, and the rising sun with birth or life.
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