The Art of a Setting Sun

The sun has started to set, lighting up the inside of your car with its warm glow. You drive up the bridge and glance at the view outside your window. It has been a while since you enjoyed it, you realise. It is a shame that you can only relish it for a second before your tiny car rolls down the other side of the bridge.

By the time you reach your driveway, the sky has turned a dark hue, and a cluster of stars slowly starts to emerge. It is only Tuesday, but you already feel exhausted.

As you fumble for your keys in your work bag, you run through your mind the first thing that you should do as soon as you get in your apartment. It has been a few days since you did laundry. But then it's almost six in the evening, and you probably want to start making dinner. Then you remember you had made a mental note earlier this morning, before you left to water your plants.

When you finally push the door open, the silence is filled with a soft creaking sound. Your door has always done that. You always say it's your own personal doorbell. Not like anyone is waiting for you to come home. But surprisingly, it gives you a sense of comfort.

You drop your bag on the floor and remove your shoes as soon as you get in. Then you make your way around to your tiny living room and turn on the ten lamps you've got scattered around. A sigh escapes your thin lips as you sit on your couch and reach for the TV remote.

The first thing that pops up on the screen is the evening news. Someone has been arrested for running naked in a mall. You flick it to a different channel. A reality show about five gorgeous women and men getting paired up to go on dates.

You don't need a reminder for your current lack of love life. Next.

White Chicks is on. But you are not in the mood for comedy. And so you change the channel again. Food channel. A famous chef is currently making a pasta dish.

Food.

You start to feel the hunger. So you push yourself up and make your way to the kitchen. You open your fridge only to find it bare and almost empty. Two bottles of water, an egg, a jar of store-bought pesto, mayonnaise, and a container of leftover rice.

Your cupboard will have a few cans of tuna. So you grab the container of rice and toss it in the microwave. As it heats up, you open up the cupboard and grab a can of tuna. You pop the lid open just as the microwave beeps. With your leftover rice now steaming and hot, you dump the tuna flakes on top of it. Then, squeeze out a bit of mayo before mixing it all up together.

There you go. Dinner.

As you devour your Michelin-star quality dinner, your mind drifts off back to work. Today hasn't been a good day. Your manager has dropped a bomb of a report for you to draft, with only a few hours left before it's due. Your co-worker called in sick again, and so you are left to do your job and hers. And the phone has been teasing you all day with all the calls it has been directing to you.

After dinner, you continue to stare at the TV as it plays a random show. You don't seem to remember what was on before you saw an ad with a young girl painting. Your mind drifts to your younger years when you used to paint, and you wonder if you ever kept your old paintings. Not that they were any good. You never let anyone see them before.

It has been years since you painted. After university, you have forced yourself to focus on getting a proper job. "Art will get you nowhere," your mom says. And so when you finally get an entry-level position in a corporate company, she is beyond ecstatic. She is even more ecstatic when you tell her that you have enrolled yourself in a Master's degree. She keeps reminding you of how proud she is of you for following your dream.

But for the past six months, you have been slack. Before, you dedicate an hour of your time after your shift to your coursework. Now, you continue to sit in front of the TV at 9 PM as you scrape down the last bits of your dinner.

Maybe it's time for a shower.

You quickly rinsed your bowl and let it drain on the rack. Then you head to your bathroom and turn the hot water on. As soon as you step under it, you suddenly feel all the weight come off you. Your muscles start to relax, and your breathing starts to slow down. You stand under the shower for what seems like hours, silent and still. The sound of the water splashing is calming.

However, by the time you slide under your sheets, you realise you cannot fall asleep. How does a mind stay quiet yet loud at the same time? You wonder.

Defeated, you throw your blanket off you and stand up. You pace back and forth in your bedroom. Maybe a cup of tea will help. Or start counting a hundred sheep?

The logical thing to do is make the most of this situation and turn on the laptop to do a bit of coursework. But deep down, you know you don't want to do that.

When you work six days a week, you are beaten down and exhausted all the time. You just want to clock off mentally. This is probably why you have a big pile of unwashed clothes. Why your plants start to wilt. Why you haven't gone to the grocery store to resupply your fridge.

And in that moment, you realise you have lost yourself. You can't pinpoint when it happened. You just know that these past years, you have slowly lost a piece of you. Did you make a bad decision? Should you have gone the other way and followed your dream? How would your life be if you did?

None of that matters now. You're here now. But something needs to change.

No, you are not making drastic decisions. Like putting in your resignation the next day because all this time you have hated your job. Or dropping your degree after spending months of hard work.

A little change is all you need right now. A small win.

You look around your unlit bedroom. You notice it is bare. There is only your messy single bed against a blank wall, a desk where your laptop and textbooks sit, and a stool in front of it. So you decide to start and make a change in this room.

The crescent moon glowed softly out your window, giving a faint light. You sit down on your wobbly stool, open the drawer, and pull out a blank paper. You don't have as many supplies as you once did. But your fingers find some highlighters of different colours. Your eyes search for the right shade. And under the moonlight, you start to paint the setting sun you saw on top of the bridge.

It is not what you are used to. But each stroke of the highlighter feels like a small piece of you has returned. And suddenly, it feels like the beginning of a change. Something new. Better.

Next thing you know, you stand in your bedroom, a week later, and the room looks so foreign yet familiar at the same time. The once blank wall is now filled with colourful sketches, most of which are made with your highlighters. You make a mental note to sketch something else other than the sunset. Maybe that pot of monstera in your living room that has recently grown a new leaf. Or the bowl of oranges you placed on your kitchen bench earlier.

But then you realise it does not matter what you paint next. Things are slowly changing. And for the first time in a long time, you look forward to what's ahead.