After an unusually dark and cloudy day, the setting sun mustered up a last hurrah and burst out from behind the mountains. Individual wisps of cloud soaked in amber hung low against a wall of steely blue storm clouds that were held up above the peaks by a perfect border of titian red. The frozen lake had begun to thaw; lit up by the winter sun and spun by the wind, the water resting on the ice was liquid gold. The windows of every house and building on the hill facing the light had fallen to the Midas touch, as if the city was trying to outshine the sudden unveiling. As I walked home from class, the wind whipped my hair and clothes around, completely overwhelming my senses with fresh, clean, northern air and ruffling the feathers of the swans resting on the ice with their long necks tucked under their wings.
I had no camera, and just as well; perhaps it would have been an unholy thing to try to preserve something so glorious forever- like a gothic anti-hero lusting for immortality. Moments like these, when the wind and the light seem to be a brief glimpse into some ethereal ideal- moments like these, even after the memory has slipped beyond recall- moments like these lift me higher as I trudge upwards, longing to finally fall through that temporary and painfully tangible veil softly into the penumbra of greatness whispering across the gloom.