Sun Loop: A Motion Picture

Do you still remember the first time you noticed the sun was moving—as if it breathed life too?

You were eleven; you were carried away by the wonder of how this vast, glowing entity seemed to follow your every step. You walked, then jogged, then ran—until the run became a race. A race you never meant to start, but one you couldn't seem to stop. The sun challenged you, or so you thought. So you ran harder. Faster. As if one day, maybe, you could outrun it. And so the race became a never-ending show—with you never becoming the victor.

Then you age, and as you do, you begin to unfold the truth—how foolish it all was. You slowed down to test the hypothesis you got and yes, the sun slowed down too. Now you're racing with your heart thumping loud, chasing breath, and sweat-bathed. But you didn’t realize, did you? The moment you stopped moving, it stopped too. You burst into laughter not because it's funny—but because it tasted like salad.[1.1]

“Ah! The sun never meant any competition.” It was only ever trying to move with you. And you—you spent years chasing it like chasing your own shadow or like a cat trying to catch its own tail. Convinced it was running from you, when all it ever did was follow. It was running because you're after it; only a nincompoop doesn't run, knowing they are being chased.

Then came the in-between years. The finish lines just got further and suddenly, it wasn’t the sun anymore. You chased glimmers—shiny things that vanished the moment you touched them, and so you became a mirrorball. Spinning, reflecting, scattering pieces of yourself in every direction just to catch someone’s eye, despite knowing no one would ever try to learn how you were made—no one would ever know how many times you have to be broken in the process just to emit that much glimmer.

You stood beneath invisible spotlights, trying to see lenses or flashes of cameras toward you—anything that proved you were worth being captured. A subject, despite knowing you've never been photogenic.

You searched for yourself in mirrored faces, hoping someone else’s gaze could confirm you existed.

There you are again, hit with the fact that you started another marathon—against no one. You thought you were done with all that. You shrugged and told yourself, “It’s just because I’m young.”

But here comes twenty-four, and the chase changes, frustratingly commencing another lap. This time, it’s not the sun. Not the people. Not even yourself. This time, you’re chasing time. You got off riding the second hand of your wall clock, and instead lifted it, pushed it to move faster—hoping it could get through the traffic knowing it's rush hour, thinking you could finally move, because you measure your worth in how fast you arrive. But it didn’t. You only kept circling. You lift the clock’s arm and run so fast, only to realize again—it’s pointless.

You waited for a green light that never came—while others seemed to arrive swiftly at their destination, hassle-free. It's because they were fortunate enough to afford a jet, a Mercedes, or maybe a speedboat. Some were just brave enough to take short roads, even when the path was unfamiliar. While you're not—all because you were scared of a bear that might be blocking your way.

But time… just like the other things before—only waits for you to notice it again. To walk beside it, like a friend. Like you did with the sun, once. It’s not meant to be conquered, only accompanied. What if every second you sprint past is one you were meant to sit with? To feel fully? You've been in different arcs—different seasons, different skins—but it has always been the same, hasn’t it? You keep chasing something. You keep repeating it, running in the same sphere as if motion is the only thing that could make you whole. [2.1]

And maybe someday, you’ll be older, and the chase will take a different shape again, born out of your mere oblivion. This time you chase memories—telling the tales of your time to your children and grandchildren as if a form of inheritance, leaving soft pieces of yourself, hoping they'd be willing to take them.

And on your deathbed, you still want to chase something but you can no longer move. All your limbs are paralyzed—perhaps from always running. You want to chase company but then stop yourself beforehand... not because you’ve given up, but because you’ve arrived—finally realizing there was never anywhere else to be but here and that you have always been accompanied by all the things you chase after your whole life.

And the sun, finally setting—still golden, still quiet—will rest beside you, just like in the beginning. Moving again only when you do.

Until the sun loop starts again.