From the window of my room, the world seemed to stage a private drama. The sun, swollen and red, hung low on the horizon, dipping steadily as though it were being pulled into the earth. Its glow spread across the sky, turning the clouds into embers and painting the evening in hues of fire.
On the left, the tall electric posts and wires cut through the canvas like dark strokes on a burning backdrop. Strangely, instead of marring the view, they gave the sunset a frame—like gateways strung together, leading directly into the heart of the sun. For a fleeting moment, it looked as if my window itself had opened a passage into that molten horizon, a direct entry into the brilliance beyond.
Inside my room, the curtains caught the glow and turned alive—yellow, orange, and red, swaying gently as if they too had been touched by the sky’s fever. The air carried a quiet warmth, not from the sun itself but from the feeling of being tethered to something eternal.
The village hummed faintly outside, yet in that moment, it felt distant. Time had slowed. The wires, the posts, the sun, the curtains—all had come together, transforming an ordinary evening into a memory that refuses to fade.
It was a reminder: beauty does not always lie in untouched landscapes; sometimes it burns brightest through the frame of our own windows.
Lens and Landmarks 