It seems to me that there’s beauty to be discerned in just about everything you look at.

It’s poker night tonight, so on my way home I got off the tram early and popped into the bottleshop for some beer. Coming out I paused to cross the road and noticed the sky. It was dusk, and the sun was setting along an indistinct horizon.

There are days when you stop to behold a setting sun brilliant in its colour, clean and sharp like something made by God. There is beauty in that, obvious beauty. I looked up today and saw something quite different but felt like a reflex that this was special, that something in the quality of the light and the texture of the sky made it so, never to be exactly repeated again.

The sky was soft, the colours layered subtly from the horizon where the sun gently infused it’s colour up to the grey and blue of the sky above. There was a chill in the air betokening a winter coming, and all was smoky, hazy, as seen through tracing paper, like a dreamy Monet landscape. The days have been like this lately, foggy in the morning and clear later before the haze that comes from the cold and from back-burning in the bush gathers in the twilit sky.

I made my way home and I felt it enter me, all this, as often I write, but it is truly said. It is like I breathe in all this wonder and feel it inflate inside, something of infinite scale and variety, something that never ends. I walk feeling it high in my chest and the realisation again, corny as it sounds, of how wonderful it is to be a part of all this.