I cannot describe to you my throbbing headache. Nor can I describe how orange the sky was that day. Ridges of stone were blanketed under the warmth of a thousand pines. And the sun—the sun comes right over the river. It bursts like lighting from the gorge, slowly approaching and then all at once. The river winds, just out of reach of the tangerine rays. Wisps of cotton candy clouds retreat in wake of the blinding light.
And that’s when it struck me as such a ridiculous activity. It hurts. Looking at the sun pains the eye as well as the mind. The sun burns white, hot, into your pupils and then recedes as quickly as it had come. The light from the sun leaves a void in your vision—black.  Your sight is in patches from that burning planet and all you want is to drag your eyes back to it and let the sun decimate them.
For now the sun has risen, everyone is huddled together under blankets bathed in orange light. Half the face bleeds peach sunlight in wake of the rising while the other half that faces away burns cold. The river has yet to take notice of the sun light, but the rolling mountains of pines are suddenly bright. I know my description of a sunrise poorly captures the experience so let me tell you about the golden color that her hair took on once soaked in drowsy light. Blonde, stray hairs frizzed out in all directions—each one painted an orange-gold brand of sunlight. The majority of her hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail that hid from the aureate light. But her bangs would not hide; they obstructed her vision of the morning. Gold had never been a more beautiful color. In every direction the sunlight reflected off of her dirty blonde hair almost as if it were her who was responsible for the gilded light.  I look away as she pushes strands of sunlight behind her left ear, which rapidly frees themselves from that restraint. We are gold!  they scream.  This is color you cannot contain. Even with the blanket pulled taught over her blonde soaked head, the sunlight emerges. From underneath the blankets she radiates the light. Its her. We all keep scouring the horizon for the one responsible for the auric rays but it is her. Everyone is looking the wrong way. She illuminates the wooden bench she sits upon with folded legs and frozen fingers. How can she be cold? She is the sun. from the stone wall I am perched upon I can feel her heat. My body is cold, my back frozen from the stone—same for the one leg I have pressed into her back. She leans back in her fleece blanket. Red. How fitting. And for a small moment I am warm. Even her freckles drink in the sunlight she emits—plastered against exhilarated skins the sun dozes on our exposed flesh. It is sleeping. So shhhhh, do not wake the dragon or get near its gaping mouth.