Watercolours and Writer’s Block

I sit down quickly to type, looking outside at the dusk of this September evening before its gradients turn to grey.  The hue of the day disappearing, as the remains of summer are.  Appearing briefly, and gloriously to my right, and disappearing now too – a rainbow!  Its colourful contrasting lines are conspicuous against the clouds that quilt the sky above it.  From my upstairs window, it implies a gargantuan parabola, but at this angle, in truth, I perceive only an almost straight streak.  Suburban roofs obscure the full reality.  It fades as quickly as I write this.  I get just a glimpse to appreciate it, and I appreciate it all the more because of this mere moment; like my thoughts and ideas, it fades away and it’s hard to imagine experiencing another one quite like it again.  The red and peach, orange and pink hues, falling on the walls of houses, and the blue and white sky, are all disappearing now too, as if washed away by the light shower that helped create this scene a moment ago.  A watercolour… Now grey…  Now dark.  Mundaneness reasserts itself, and the gods retire for the night, taking their parting gift as they go.  Oh well, there may be many more glorious evenings, perhaps exceedingly brilliant in their own way – alas, none the same as this.

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