Many times the sun has arisen over the tree tops. An endless cycle, a movie playing over and over again projected over my eyes. Each moment passed like a frame, seamless when viewed in motion but fragmented when examined too closely. Noon was the brightest, a scene overexposed, the world painted in stark contrast. The heat shimmered like the distortion of a worn-out tape, reality bending at its edges.

By afternoon, the reel stuttered. The sun dragged across the sky slower, as if the projector was jammed, skipping slightly. Clouds rolled in like dust on the film, brief interruptions in the steady light. The world felt paused between frames, caught in a liminal glow.

Evening arrived with a shift in tone—the colors deepened, shadows stretched longer. The film’s final act. The air smelled of cooling earth and distant memories, as if the projector was replaying old scenes. The sky darkened, the reel winding down, frames fading into black.

And then, the final flicker. The sun disappeared beyond the horizon. The filmstrip ran out. The projector clicked off, leaving only the quiet hum of night.

T What if it is all hidden in plane view right before our eyes. The wonderful world, ever so present, before our eyes. A suns view just there.