Capturing Sunset Quotes

Emerald slopes became so tall they touched the clouds, and showers painted diamond waterfalls that sluiced down cliff sides.

Most people miss their whole lives, you know. Listen, life isn't when you are standing on top of a mountain looking at a sunset. Life isn't waiting at the alter or the moment your child is born or that time you were swimming in a deep water and a dolphin came up alongside you. These are fragments. 10 or 12 grains of sand spread throughout your entire existence. These are not life. Life is brushing your teeth or making a sandwich or watching the news or waiting for the bus. Or walking. Every day, thousands of tiny events happen and if you're not watching, if you're not careful, if you don't capture them and make them COUNT, your could miss it. You could miss your whole life.

What swells inside me is a love so boundless, I am the sunrise and sunset. I am Liberty Bell in the Cascades. I am Beihai Lake. I am every beautiful, truly beautiful, thing I've ever seen, captured in my personal Geographia, the atlas of myself.

I stopped taking photos of sunsets a long time ago. I can never capture its colours. The same goes for you.

They captured in their ramble all the mysteries and magics of a March evening. Very still and mild it was, wrapped in a great, white, brooding silence -- a silence which was yet threaded through with many little silvery sounds which you could hear if you hearkened as much with your soul as your ears. The girls wandered down a long pineland aisle that seemed to lead right out into the heart of a deep-red, overflowing winter sunset.

A slight breeze cooled the Hawaiian spring air, swaying the branches of palm trees, which cast black silhouettes against the purple and orange colors of the twilight sky.

I felt the beautiful melancholy of being human, captured perfectly in the setting of a sun. Because, as with a sunset, to be human was to be in-between things; a day, bursting with desperate colour as it headed irreversibly towards night.

Except those images weren’t exact captures of reality. No, the Camera Eye was also suffused with what photographers called the Golden Hour—the gilt-tinted hour following sunrise and preceding sunset, when the world was awash with russet rays and even the meanest streets were aglow as if in an Arthurian legend. Every moment spent with John was like that, reality beyond reality. Richer, realer, rawer than reality. These were the moments she remembered most.

Mount Kilauea spilled glowing lava like cords of orange neon-lighting from seemingly nowhere. In the blackness that engulfed the night, electric heat lit flowing streams that fell into the sea, disappearing in a cloud of steam with a sizzling splash.

The air was warm and heavy as sprinkles began to fall from the clouds high above. The Triton glided through the waters and the whoosh of the ship combined with the steady beat of the rain to make a concerto, like a pianist fluttering his fingers on the keys at one end and running his fingers up and down the scales at the other. Expectancy hung in the air as the tune moved to a crescendo.

If I should capture the most beautiful sunrise, only then, will I stop capturing them.

The flames of the luau bonfire burned brightly. Sparks flew into the sky and disappeared before they reached the stars above. Near the horizon, the moon was large and round and flawless as porcelain.

To capture a California sunset in South Pasadena is to hold an angel's wings with bated breath.

So we stood up there for a long while, watching the sunset and discussing how it was one of those things you could never truly capture in 8-bit, not with the simplistic definition of violet (CHR$(156)), orange (CHR$(129)), and yellow (CHR$(158)). There were too many other colors, thousands of colors. The hardware could never do justice to it.

Every sunset gives me a hope to live. It reminds me, You have capture more with your heart. It reminds me you are not alone, surrounded by a beautiful world, always there for you.

If I missed the sunrise of this day and if I let the sunset slip by unnoticed, I might ask if what captured my attention this day was worth the loss of this day because I can’t think of anything that’s that important.

Heaven’s Door" I’d search the world for Heaven’s Door, Over mountains and valleys, each sandy shore. I’d find the stairway, soaring through clouds, I'd climb each step, without making a sound. I’d arrive at the door of glimmering gold, I’d slip through unnoticed, not stirring a soul. I’d gasp at its beauty, at its rivers and trees, I’d stray from the paths, I’d hide among leaves. I’d tiptoe unseen, under sun and sky blue, I’d search every corner until I found you. I’d capture a tear, catch a glimpse of your hair, As you danced and you twirled, without any care. You’d smile and you’d laugh, like a bird you’d be free, I’d try not to cry, you’re there without me. I’d stay my hand from touching your face, From calling your name, to feel your embrace. You’d open your mouth and your voice would be pure, I’d treasure the sound, no more pain you’d endure. I’d stay ‘til the sunset, when I’d have to leave, A pain in my heart, my spirit in grief. I’d blow you a kiss, let it drift to the sky, I’d whisper ‘I love you’ and bid you goodbye. I'd pass through the door, I’d descend out of view, Knowing that one day, some day, I’d again be with you. - Elsie

He lifted one bottle into the light. " 'GREEN DUSK FOR DREAMING BRAND PUREE NORTHERN AIR,' " he read. " 'Derived from the atmosphere of the white Arctic in the spring of 1900, and mixed with the wind from the upper Hudson Valley in the month of April, 1910, and containing particles of dust seen shining in the sunset of one day in the meadows around Grinnell, Iowa, when a cool air rose to be captured from a lake and a little creek and a natural spring.' "Now the small print," he said. He squinted. " 'Also containing molecules of vapor from menthol, lime, papaya, and watermelon and all other water-smelling, cool-savored fruits and trees like camphor and herbs like wintergreen and the breath of a rising wind from the Des Plaines River itself. Guaranteed most refreshing and cool. To be taken on summer nights when the heat passes ninety.' " He picked up the other bottle. "This one the same, save I've collected a wind from the Aran Isles and one from off Dublin Bay with salt on it and a strip of flannel fog from the coast of Iceland." He put the two bottles on the bed. "One last direction." He stood by the cot and leaned over and spoke quietly. "When you're drinking these, remember: It was bottled by a friend. The S.J. Jonas Bottling Company, Green Town, Illinois- August, 1928. A vintage year, boy... a vintage year.

When you take a picture of a sunset and it doesn’t look good you don’t say, ‘Eww the sky is ugly.’ You know it is the camera that can’t capture the beauty of the sunset. Yet when you take a selfie and it doesn’t look good you very quickly say, ‘Eww, I’m ugly,’ when in fact it is the camera that can’t capture your beauty.

Trying to photograph the transcendental moment when the blazing disk disappeared into the ocean was ridiculous; in staring through a lens, the eye lost its peripheral vision while the scents and sounds that were part of the experience of a sunset were lost in the attempt to capture it.

Life is a game of chance, each passing day becomes another flip of the coin. Nothing is unique. Everything I’ve experienced even for the first time has been identified and photographed a million times, the curve of a woman’s hips, the tropical sunset, the tower on the hill, a close up of a celebrity, captured by minds similar to mine and littered in the annexes of the psyches of people I don’t know. I am an understudy in my own life, I don’t know what will happen and in my mind anything can happen at anytime. I am an emotional fossil, i have picked apart every fibre of my thoughts, feelings and emotions apart with caliper and forceps, as i ponder sometimes with great anxiety over my looming and inexorable future. That doom follows me like a hovering presence outside the windows and hallways of my life, i don’t have a map of where i am heading or master key to open doors or gateways to my success- i am still even on the sunniest days, feeling around in the dark. You cannot study me, you are bound to fail for somedays you will feel as if you are peeping through a keyhole at my life. You know you don’t know everything, for i have hallways you cannot unlock, attics and stairways you cannot access and even when you stare through that keyhole, you aren’t sure if you are looking in or looking out. My mind and feelings have built up over time like a strong fortress, my love life remaining but the only, for some, psychological entryway.

I felt the beautiful melancholy of being human, captured perfectly in the setting of a sun. Because, as with a sunset, to be human was to be in-between things; a day, bursting with desperate colour as it headed irreversibly towards night

The Last Ride of Grayson “Grady” Hale In the heart of the wild west, under the vast expanse of the azure sky, rode Grayson “Grady” Hale, a cowboy known for his unyielding spirit and his trusty steed, Bess. Grady’s life was woven into the fabric of the frontier, a tapestry of cattle drives, campfire tales, and the pursuit of freedom that only the open range could offer. Grady was born to the saddle, learning to ride before he could walk, and to rope not long after. His father, a seasoned rancher, had instilled in him the values of hard work and respect for the land. Grady’s mother, a woman of strength and grace, taught him the gentle touch needed to soothe a spooked calf or mend a broken wing. As the years passed, Grady’s reputation grew. He wasn’t the fastest gun nor the richest rancher, but he had something more valuable—integrity. Folks from miles around would seek his help when rustlers threatened or when a neighbor needed a hand. Grady never turned his back on those in need, and his word was as solid as the mountains framing the horizon. One fateful day, a telegram arrived, calling Grady to a distant town. A band of outlaws had taken over, and the people were desperate. Grady kissed his wife, Emma, goodbye, promising to return once peace was restored. With Bess beneath him, he rode out, the dust of the trail rising like a storm behind him. The confrontation was inevitable. Grady, with a handful of brave souls, stood against the outlaws. Words were exchanged, and then gunfire. When the smoke cleared, the outlaws were either captured or fled, and the town was saved. But victory came at a cost—Grady had taken a bullet. As he lay there, the townsfolk gathered, their faces etched with concern and gratitude. Grady knew his ride was coming to an end. With his last breath, he whispered a message to be given to Emma, a message of love and a promise kept. Back at the ranch, Emma received the news with a stoic heart. She knew the risks of loving a cowboy, the same risks that made her love him all the more. She gazed out at the sunset, the colors painting the sky like the wildflowers of their meadow. And in that moment, she felt Grady’s presence, like the gentle brush of a breeze, telling her he was home at last. Grady’s tale is one of courage, sacrifice, and the enduring legacy of a cowboy who lived by his own code. His story, like the trails he once rode, winds its way into the legend of the west, reminding us that some spirits are as untameable as the land they love.

Daddy's Little Girl [Verse] I remember when you took your first steps, Tiny shoes dancing in the soft spring grass, I was chasing dreams, didn't see the moments pass, Now all I have are these memories to confess. [Verse 2] Birthday candles lighting up your eyes, I was on the road while you cried your childish cries, Missed your laughter, your hugs, and all your highs, Each mile I traveled was another goodbye. [Chorus] I'm sorry I wasn't there when you needed me the most, I'm sorry I wasn't the father you needed me to be, But you'll always be daddy's little girl, No matter where life leads you, in my heart, you're free. [Verse 3] Years have flown by like a runaway train, Photographs can't capture all the joy and pain, I missed your proms, your fears, your growing pains, But you shined a light that helped me see again. [Verse 4] I see your face in every sunset's hue, Wishing I could turn back and stand beside you, Your forgiveness is a gift that pulls me through, You're the song I sing when the day is anew. [Chorus] I'm sorry I wasn't there when you needed me the most, I'm sorry I wasn't the father you needed me to be, But you'll always be daddy's little girl, No matter where life leads you, in my heart, you're free.

Because a picture can't capture this present moment. It's can't capture the smell or the sounds or the colors. You have to save those in your mind.

He finally met my gaze again, tears still pooling in his eyes. “One day in the summer the three of us were out playing in the yard. It was just around sunset. There were fireflies everywhere, so you and William wanted to run around and catch them. And you held my hand like this—with your little finger wrapped around mine. You asked me to promise that I would make you happy forever. That was the contract we made … after you captured my heart.” My breath caught in my throat. I couldn’t move. Even if I didn’t remember

I felt the beautiful melancholy of being human, captured perfectly in the setting of the sun. Because, as with a sunset, to be human was to be in between things—a day, bursting with desperate color as it headed irreversibly toward night.

On the one hand, using precise philosophical categories and analyses in scriptures such as the Centrist ones, whose primary aim is to provide the means for the transcendence of dualistic thinking altogether, in order to give way to unmediated direct insight into the nature of all phenomena is like attempting to apply a mathematical formula in order to capture the experience of being completely absorbed in a wonderful piece of music or watching a breathtaking sunset. So, "pure logic" is surely not the ultimate key to understanding Buddhist texts and views, and we should not expect to find the ultimately correct conceptual presentation of facts and experiences on the Buddhist path that by definition lie outside the realm of conceptual mind anyway. Even on the mundane plane, what would be the finally correct presentation of the taste of chocolate? And even if there were such a thing, what would its relevance be for the actual experience of tasting chocolate? After all that has been said here, it should be clear that I do not hold a brief for some kind of "mysticism" or even "irrationalism." At the same time, we must accept that "pure experience" per se does not lead to an understanding of treatises that are grounded in a rational format to speak about something that is beyond the confines of language and reason. In the realm of the actual experience that such texts point to, reason and language have lost all meaning and the work of the scholar has reached its end.

The captured King of Ai was brought handcuffed before Joshua. Joshua taking his cue from God drove a spear through the king and hung his body from a tree until evening. “At sunset, Joshua ordered them to take down his body from the tree and throw it down at the entrance of the city gate. And they raised a large pile of rocks over it, which remains to this day.” (Joshua 8:29 NIV)

You have to understand: I was at the time enraptured with comic books and fantasy novels. I had never read Annie Dillard or Frederick Buechner or (other than Narnia) C. S. Lewis. I had no context for the kind of writing that attempted to capture in words either the burning beauty of a Florida sunset or the God who had lit the fire. But I filled a page with words, with weak and overwrought sentences; like a juggler who kept fumbling I scratched out words and wrote what I thought were better ones, aiming at something excellent even as I was aware of how pathetically short I fell.

If you've ever seen a perfect sunset, you should know that that perfection was captured by the magnificent touch of clouds, mountains and rivers!

Ritual characterizes every aspect of life here, and even mundane, daily activities take on an ageless quality. The daily rhythm begins at dawn, as the fishermen launch boats from countless harbors, an event that has taken place for centuries. The women go to market, exchanging greetings and comments. Ritual rules the care and time taken with every detail of the midday meal, from the hearty seafood appetizers to the strong, syrupy coffee that marks the end of the feast. The day winds down with the evening stroll, a tradition thoroughly ingrained in the culture of the Greek Isles. In villages and towns throughout the islands, sunset brings cooler air and draws people from their homes and the beaches for an enjoyable evening walk through town squares, portside promenades, and narrow streets. Ancient crafts still flourish in the artisans’ studios and in tidy homes of countless mountain villages and ports. Embroidery--traditionally the province of Greek women--is created by hand to adorn the regional costumes worn during festivals. Artists craft delicate silver utensils, engraved gems, blown glass, and gold jewelry. Potters create ceramic pieces featuring some of the same decorative patterns and mythological subjects that captured their ancestors’ imagination. Weddings, festivals, saints’ days. And other celebrations with family and friends provide a backdrop for grave and energetic Greek dancing. For centuries--probably ever since people have lived on the islands--Greek islanders have seized every opportunity to play music, sing, and dance. Dancing in Greece is always a group activity, a way to create and reinforce bonds among families, friends, and communities, and island men have been dancing circle dances like the Kalamatianos and the Tsamikos since antiquity. Musicians accompany revelers on stringed instruments like the bouzouki--the modern equivalent of the lyre. While traditional attire is reserved mainly for festive occasions, on some islands people still sport these garments daily. On Lefkada and Crete, it is not unusual to find men wearing vraka, or baggy trousers, and vests, along with the high boots known as stivania. Women wear long, dark, pleated skirts woven on a traditional loom, and long silk scarves or kerchiefs adorn their heads. All the garments are ornamented by hand with rich brocades and elaborate embroidery. All over the Greek Isles, Orthodox priests dress in long black robes, their shadowy figures contrasting with the bright whites, blues, and greens of Greek village architecture.

But it wasn’t our differences that I wanted to focus on. So I parked in one of the visitors’ spots and pulled out the GPS I had taken to carrying in my backpack when I went running. I switched it on so I could pinpoint my coordinates, the longitude and latitude that placed me here and nowhere else in the world. The problem was, inside the car, the device couldn’t locate the satellites, so I unrolled the window, stuck my hand out and held the device to the sun. As soon as it calibrated, I grabbed my notebook from my backpack, ripped out a random page, and wrote my position on the paper. As I folded the sheet in half, I caught sight of my meager notes from the lecture about Fate Maps all those months ago. Genetics might be our first map, imprinted within us from the moment the right sperm meets the right egg. But who knew that all those DNA particles are merely reference points in our own adventures, not dictating our fate but guiding our future? Take Jacob’s cleft lip. If his upper lip had been fused together the way it was supposed to be inside his mother’s belly, he’d probably be living in a village in China right now. Then there was me with my port-wine stain. I lifted my eyes to the rearview mirror, wondering what I would have been like had I never been born with it. My fingers traced the birthmark landlocked on my face, its boundary lines sharing the same shape as Bhutan, the country neighboring Tibetans call the Land of the Dragon. I liked that; the dragons Dad had always cautioned me about had lived on my face all this time. Here be dragons, indeed. I leaned back in my seat now, closing my eyes, relishing the feel of the sun warming my face. No, I wouldn’t trade a single experience — not my dad or my birthmark — to be anyone but me, right here, right now. At last, at 3:10, I open my door. I don’t know how I’ll find Jacob, only that I will. A familiar loping stride ambles out of the library. Not a Goth guy, not a prepster, just Jacob decked in a shirt as unabashedly orange as anything in Elisa’s Beijing boutique. This he wore buttoned to the neck and untucked over jeans, sleeves rolled up to reveal tanned arms. For the first time, I see his aggressively modern glasses, deathly black and rectangular. His hair is the one constant: it’s spiked as usual. What swells inside me is a love so boundless, I am the sunrise and sunset. I am Liberty Bell in the Cascades. I am Beihai Lake. I am every beautiful, truly beautiful, thing I’ve ever seen, captured in my personal Geographia, the atlas of myself.

AWARE The great sigh of things. To be aware of aware (pronounced ah-WAH-ray) is to be able to name the previously ineffable sigh of impermanence, the whisper of life flitting by, of time itself, the realization of evanescence. Aware is the shortened version of the crucial Japanese phrase mono-no-aware, which suggested sensitivity or sadness during the Heian period, but with a hint of actually relishing the melancholy of it all. Originally, it was an interjection of surprise, as in the English “Oh!” The reference calls up bittersweet poetic feelings around sunset, long train journeys, looking out at the driving rain, birdsong, the falling of autumn leaves. A held-breath word, it points like a finger to the moon to suggest an unutterable moment, too deep for words to reach. If it can be captured at all, it is by haiku poetry, the brushstroke of calligraphy, the burbling water of the tea ceremony, the slow pull of the bow from the oe. The great 16th-century wandering poet Matsuo Basho caught the sense of aware in his haiku: “By the roadside grew / A rose of Sharon. / My horse / Has just eaten it.” A recent Western equivalent would be the soughing lyric of English poet Henry Shukman, who writes, “This is a day that decides by itself to be beautiful.