Some days are clear as a bell purely struck by a smooth pebble thrown from 31 meters away; this is not one of those days.

A slight haze, perhaps from sugarcane-burnt smoke earlier at dawn, softens the look of those peaks (the “West Maui Mountains” or, as the ancient Mauians would have called it, Halemahina)… almost as if some Gaussian blurring was applied on that canvas.

One time I captured the setting moon on that mirror, riding down westward to its temporary saddle, only to sink beneath it in the fleetness of a minute. And I remembered how mom stared at it, in the last days of her life, as if there was no time left to do that with. Which was the case.

I would not begrudge anyone their faith, if it allows them to soften the blows of the days, or to blunt the sharp edges of living. Or, really, if it lets them be happy; more importantly still, if it lets them be kind to the people around them. But please spare me the piety, the false humility of the deluded. There is too little time to waste, and too much to appreciate whilst one is still around.

In the area between colors, when the shift happens—whether subtly or with shock—where life happens, one must be cognizant of the fact that yes, it will reflect you just so. And, in the reflection, reveals your true self to those who pay heed.