Preface: The sunset is just about my favorite thing in the world, as I believe that the best things are free and commonly available (more on that in future posts). This essay is about how I came to appreciate the sunset, a journey that took course over many years. I wrote this one for my senior year English class. Enjoy!

Rays of gold spill through the curtain on an early autumn evening, landing on the left side of my face as I type. My left eye squints. I squirm in my chair. 

Now there’s glare on my screen. 

I turn my computer counterclockwise, scooching my chair to face it. No glare on the screen … but the light’s in my eyes again. I snatch my computer off the living room tabletop. I cradle it in my arms as I rise from the chair and lumber past the faded painting on the wall of the Chinese yin and yang symbol. Arriving at the kitchen table, I sit down to study. The seat is cold.

My mom asks if I want to take a walk. 

I sigh.

She says it’s beautiful weather outside, the kind to die for. Lately, she’s been saying this every day. 

I have to stay inside — there’s work to be done. Besides, it’s chilly outside, and I’d rather stay where I feel warm; I don’t want hypothermia. Anyways, I don’t have time. There’ll be another chance to see the sunset. It comes every day. I’d rather see it when it’s perfect.

She sighs, opening the door. Light floods in, directly striking the screen of my computer. I throw up my arms to try to shield the letters from the beams of light. Alas, I cannot stop it.

“Close the door!” I yell. 

Thud.

Where’s she going anyways? What’s the point of walking if you’re not going anywhere, if there’s nothing specific to get done?

Finally, some peace and quiet. My fingers make a rapid-fire staccato sound on the keyboard, as I review my Earth Science notes, which read something like:

The seasons are not caused by the Earth’s distance to the sun, as we are actually closer to the sun in the winter … In fact, the 23.5 degree tilt of the Earth’s axis is what causes the seasons … In our summer, the northern hemisphere tilts towards the sun to make us warmer, even though the Earth is farther away … 

I squint. The room has darkened, with just a brief sliver of orange light illuminating the horizon. I turn on the lamp, and the glare is back. 

Creak. The door opens. My mom walks back in. It was so beautiful! … I should’ve been there, etc. She shows me the pictures she took, saturated with hues of gold and purple, interplay between light and clouds. 

Which one looks the best?

I pick the one currently on her screen, wanting to return to my homework. 

None of them are as beautiful as the real sunset was, she tells me. The colors are dimmer in the picture, and the light doesn’t travel as well, and you can’t see the whole sky. But, it’s still beautif … She notices my toes tapping, and her voice trails off. She walks out of the room.

I open my textbook, scanning diagrams of the sun’s path relative to the observer’s celestial sphere. Rises northeast and sets northwest in the summer … rises southeast and sets southwest in the winter ….

***

I close my textbook on a late autumn evening, having finished laboring over pages of how the New World was ultimately claimed by countries like Britain and Spain that acted opportunistically, while other nations like Russia and the Netherlands, although they had chances with their own colonies, did not seize these chances to conquer the New World. 

7:05pm, the clock reads, right next to that old yin and yang painting. Lifting myself out of the chair, I rub my eyes, then stretch. Homework all done. What to do now? 

Maybe I’ll take a walk and catch the sunset, see what my mom’s always talking about. But, when I look out the window, it begins to rain. 

Well, there’ll be another chance to see the sunset, I tell myself. It comes every single day anyways. I’d rather see it when it’s perfect.

But I don’t even remember what the sunset looks like. How do I know that it’d actually be perfect? I guess I could look at my mom’s pictures. But, like she said, the colors are dimmer, and the light doesn’t travel as well, and … what else was it that she said? Anyhow, it doesn’t matter. I wasn’t there, so the picture wouldn’t have any meaning to me anyways.

I turn on the TV to a National Geographic show about pre-Columbian civilizations.

***

Rays of flourescent yellow emanate from my lamp on a winter evening, landing on the left side of my face as I type. My left eye squints. I squirm in my chair. 

Now there’s glare on my screen.

I turn my computer counterclockwise, scooching my chair to … no, not this again. 

Closing the lid of my laptop, I stare at the white Apple logo for a minute, or maybe two — but I’m not keeping track of the time anyways. As I try to forget about hydrogen fusion reactions, I squirm in my chair. The air from my heater feels chilly. 72F, the temperature reads. 

I sigh. The sound fills the room, but my lungs feel empty. 

I tug at the string to pull the blinds up. It’s brutal weather, the kind to die in. Lately, I’ve been saying that every day. I stare out the window, watching the snowflakes fall — anything but studying in this same room again. 

You know what? It’s also brutal weather, the kind to die for. The kind of weather that makes you feel something, even if it’s so cold that you feel like your saliva is freezing inside your mouth and your body shivers so much you can see the tremors. 

I have to go outside — there’s work to be done. It’s colder, but the earth is closer to the sun now. It’s harder to watch the sun in the southwest, but I have to try to seize this chance.

I run downstairs quickly, get out my snow gear. Jacket — on. Snow pants — on. Gloves — on. Boots — on. None of them fit me particularly well, but they’ll suffice.

“I’m going for a walk!” I yell.

My mom asks me why. It’s so cold outside, she says, or something to that effect.

I’ll deal with it.

I pull at the door. Light floods out, striking the white snow. The snow has no arms to shield itself from the artificial beams of light. Then again, maybe it doesn’t want to resist. 

“Close the door!” I hear my mom yell.

Thud.

It’s cold outside, she’s right. Wind nips at my face. Flakes fall from the grey clouds. Every step feels heavy, like this white carpet is swallowing my legs. I pull my leg up, and snow flies at my face. I wipe it off and keep going to … 

Actually, now that I think about it, I don’t even know where I’m going. But does it really matter if there’s a point to this walk, if there’s anything specific to get done, if that place is I-don’t-know-where, if I’ll arrive I-don’t-know-when? At least I’m going somewhere.

The snow isn’t as comfortable as my science books or laptops, but at least it’s a feeling, even if that feeling makes mucus run from my nostrils and my glasses fog up. 

My face is greeted by a tree branch. Snow falls, down my face, down my jacket, down my boots. My chest is wet at this point, and so are my feet. I wipe the snow off my face and keep going, but not before considering, for a brief moment, the possibility of getting hypothermia. Maybe. But, right here, right now, I’m active, alive, well. 

Indeed, it’s chilly outside, but I feel warmer. Indeed, the wind shrieks, but I feel peace and quiet. Indeed, I breathe heavily, but my lungs aren’t empty anymore.

I stop walking for a moment and look southwest. It’s faint, very faint, but it’s there. A few rays, or maybe just a sliver, of golden light, squished under these purple-tinted clouds on the left side of the sky. Light poking through, begging to escape, because there’s a sunset. Yes, there’s a sunset. I’m sure of it. Maybe the colors are dimmer, and maybe the light doesn’t travel as well, and maybe it’s not even better than that picture my mom has as her iPhone background. But it’s real, and I’m here.

I pull my gloves off, and dig in my pocket for my phone. I take a picture, although my fingers miss the button at first. Surprisingly, my picture turns out to be brighter than the actual skyline. The digital colors are more vibrant, the hints of light are more obvious. But maybe it’s just perception. Maybe it’s what my mind wants to see. Just like my memory isn’t perfect, neither are these iPhone cameras. But it’s close enough.

Putting my phone away, I squint at the farthest point of the sky. I shiver a little bit, even though I’m sweating. Somewhere beyond those clouds, perhaps downstate, or the southern hemisphere, somebody’s enjoying a beautiful, warm sunset right now. So am I.

Suddenly, I am compelled to take my jacket off. Standing in my sweater, I close my eyes, and pretend that it is autumn again, that my wet chest is from the warm September sun, that the crunching sounds of tires on the street are actually the sounds of autumn leaves rustling. And for a moment, it is autumn, and I am walking with my mom, enjoying the sunset in the clear sky, laughing at stories from my infancy. 

I stand like this for a minute, or maybe two — but I’m not keeping track of the time. 

***

Grass rustles, dances. Warm autumn air whooshes through my shorts and t-shirt, just as it whooshed one minute, one hour, one day, one week, one month ago.

As is my habit on my daily sunset walks, I look back and forth between the sides of the sky. The translucent moon is on the east side, escorted by thinning clouds and constellations I can’t name. The receding banner, or maybe sliver by now, of golden light pushes against the clouds, which adopt its pinkish hues on their underbellies. I swivel my head from the dark purple of night on the east to the bright orange of the sun on the west: yin and yang. 

Then I realize that I have to pee.

Walking home, I press the crosswalk button. I wait for a few seconds, then the little white man appears on the pole across.

I look left and right. All clear. I take one step, then two … 

I don’t know how I know to do this, but I halt. Perhaps it was the headlight peeking around the corner, or perhaps it was the Doppler Effect cutting through my earbuds. 

A car turns right, cutting through the white painted crosswalk, despite the fact that the little white man says it is my turn to cross. I see it rush in front of me maybe one, two feet away from where I stand. I freeze for a moment. 

The little white man turns into a little orange hand with decreasing numbers. I am reminded to cross the crosswalk, head turning left and right like a turret. I reach the other side of the road, and take three deep breaths. My heart thumps. 

Then, I look up at the moon. Bright, full, intact, the same as it was one minute, one hour, one day, one week, one month, one year ago … and so am I. Right here, right now, I’m active, alive, well.

Taking out my phone, I snap a picture of the sky, of the wispy clouds in their gold-tinted grayness, of the trees surrounded by the last remnants of light, of the moon materializing in the background. I glance at the screen. It doesn’t quite do justice to the scene. The colors are dimmer, and the light doesn’t travel as well, and I can’t see the whole sky … but it serves its purpose. A picture is a memory, imperfect in its details, but valuable in its emotions. I’ll look back on this picture someday, and remember the feel of the breeze, the glow of the horizon, the thumps of my heart as I crossed the street. I’ll remember how that driver was definitely going somewhere. And someday, I’ll be going somewhere too. 

I look at the moon as I walk back home. It grows brighter against the dark-blue sky, as the last remnants of light concede to the inevitable onset of night. It’s a full moon, the climax of the waxing phase, the beginning of the waning phase.

… A complete cycle of lunar phases takes place approximately every 29.5 days. These phases are caused by the moon’s position relative to the sun, as the side of the moon facing the sun reflects sunlight. When the moon revolves around the earth, we see varying proportions of this illuminated side. A full moon is when the moon reflects the most sunlight towards us, while during a new moon, the sunlight is reflected away from us … 

Even when the sun has set, its light is always with us. Even in the winter, even at night, even in the living room, we can’t ever escape its reach. 

Coming back to reality from my thoughts for a brief moment, I find myself standing at my doorstep. Looking through the window, I see my laptop on the dinner table. I reach for the door handle. Just as I’m about to open the door, I pull my hand back.

The sky is now black, save for the shine of the moon and the stars. The chilly air soothes my lungs, and the sweat on my shirt has dried. Eric Clapton’s husky voice travels through my earbuds, as he sings “Autumn Leaves”.¹ Listening to this classic jazz ballad, I watch the autumn leaves of red and gold rustle in the trees, flying away to I-don’t-know-where, arriving I-don’t-know-when, even if that means leaving the comfort of these branches they have known their whole lives. But they are active, alive, well, at peace with their journeys into the unknown.

Indeed, there’ll be another chance to read about hydrogen fusion, to explore the factors that led to the colonization of the New World, to write my creative nonfiction portfolio. But tonight, I stand here at my porch, resting with my thoughts at the crossroads of day and night.

^{1. From the album Clapton, released on September 27, 2010. Prior to Clapton, Eric Clapton had not released a solo album for four years (Live from Madison Square Garden and Complete Clapton, which are rehashes of his previous works, are excluded from this count). Upon debuting, this album took spot seven on the UK Albums Chart, which marked his highest degree of commercial success in his homeland since his 2001 album Reptile. Perhaps after being deprived of his new music for so long, the fans finally came to appreciate its beauty once again. As a side-sidenote, I am intrigued at how Eric Clapton just chose to name Clapton after himself. There is no doubt that much deliberation and many failed attempts at coming up with some clever names took place, before he finally settled on the name that was truest to him: his own. Also, any factual inaccuracies in this tangent are to be blamed on Wikipedia. ↩}

Rays of flourescent yellow emanate from my lamp on a winter evening, landing on the left side of my face as my index finger hovers over the left button of my computer mouse. “Buy gabeguo.com for $11.99”, the screen reads. 

My fingertip descends to rest on the button. But there’s no click. 

My left eye squints. I squirm in my chair. I can’t bring myself to do it. Is gabeguo.com really what I want to name my website? The name of your website sets the tone for your whole brand, they say. And gabeguo.com just sounds so basic. 

Who uses their own name as their domain name anyways? Bill Gates doesn’t: his site is gatesnotes.com. Mark Cuban kind of does: his site is markcubancompanies.com, although even as he uses his name in his site, there’s a third word — companies, a descriptor of his brand, his vision, his purpose. Mark Zuckerberg and Elon Musk don’t even have their own personal websites; their personal pages are just subpages on their larger business sites: facebook.com/zuck and tesla.com/elon-musk, respectively. I guess that makes sense: their personal pages are tied to their major creations and accomplishments; after all, it was through Facebook that Zuckerberg became wealthy, and it was through Tesla (among other companies) that Musk became Twitter’s favorite techie. 

The only person I can think of who uses their name as their domain name is Donald Trump, at donaldjtrump.com. But he’s kind of a loser, or so CNN tells me. 

So, what should I name my site instead? Maybe I’ll be like Mark Cuban and name it gabeguocompanies.com. But, it’s kind of disingenuous to name my site like that if I’ve barely started one company, let alone fifty-eight (last time I counted). 

gabeguowebdesign.com? That shows direction and purpose. But, do I really want to be just the website guy? What about my music, my writing, my inventions? The same problem would arise if I followed Zuckerberg’s example and made my name a mere page on a larger site for my business. 

I’m much more than one pursuit, one activity, one idea. I suppose I could name it gabeguowebdesignmusicwritinginventions.com. But, that’s kind of a mouthful. Nobody will ever be able to remember that one, let alone have the patience to type it.

Let’s try it Bill Gates style, then. Come up with something that incorporates my name, but doesn’t have my name as the main focus. Well, my name is Gabe Guo, which means that my initials are G.G., like good game. But if we go lowercase and take out the periods, it becomes gg, or interpreted as a mathematical expression, g², like the physical constant of gravity multiplied by itself. That sounds nice and clever, without sounding like too much of a flex. But wait! You can’t type superscripts into a search bar. It would have to be gsquared.com, but a quick Google search tells me that’s already taken by some venture capitalists in the Bay Area. And besides, gsquared.com obfuscates the meaning, my purpose. It could stand for anything, as evidenced by the site that I just saw. 

I need a domain name that shows who I am, that represents me: the entrepreneur, the engineer, the musician, the writer, the scientist, the dreamer, the person. It has to be boldly and unambiguously about Gabe Guo. It has to be Gabe Guo, embodied on the World Wide Web.

I exhale. What to name it? What to name it? I bounce my leg up and down and tap my fingers on the sixteen-year-old wooden table, as has been my habit ever since I was a kid. 

I freeze. Ever since I was a kid. Ever since I was a kid, I’ve been Gabe Guo. Ever since I was a kid, that’s who I’ve been. I’ve never been anybody else. So why would I change that now, as I prepare to establish my presence on the Internet?

I look back at the computer screen. It continues to say: “Buy gabeguo.com for $11.99.” The offer still stands.

Maybe it is basic. Maybe it is true that only losers use their real names as their website names …   

… but it serves its purpose. A domain name is like a picture, imperfect in its details, but valuable in the ideas it holds the key to. And I know one thing for sure: at least it’s me — the entrepreneur, the engineer, the musician, the writer, the scientist, the dreamer, the person who someday will be going somewhere. It’s all of those names at once, summarized into one name: gabeguo.com — short, sweet, concise. 

My index finger pushes down firmly on the left mouse button. 

Click.

gabeguo.com is officially mine.