I go to the field alone and lay down on the crisp grass. I look at the sky and dreaded the upcoming night. The sky blue was silent and liquid. The white cloud was loud and solid.
The pitch black dark sky? I dread them. I dread the whispering blackness. It intimidates me. It mocks me. It contains everything that makes me feel like curling under a blanket like a child again.
But some nights, the pitch black dark sky is kind. It envelops me into a chilly embrace. It understands me. I understand it. It is everything contradictory to the pastoral picture I paint inside my head. Yet I enjoy it. I enjoy its mysterious uncertainty and everything in between.
And when it rains, I say my prayers. How can I not? The sky cries for me when I myself cannot.
Sometimes I love the moonlight. How it kisses my soul at the right places. How it speaks my language nobody else understands. I give up trying. But the moon is relentless. And the moon is patient.
Do not let me talk about the stars. They do not deserve my love. They deserve my indifference. What differs them from one another? Nothing. Nothing humans can see. I can tolerate them. They are pretty amusing.
I am a drifting soul, a tiny speck of dust in the Universe of wonderment. I make things up inside my head. That is quite alright, my inner voice always said. Live your life inside your head. Stray into a barren soiled space. And begin nurturing it. Until you make the impossible possible, the implausible plausible. Things do not just happen.
You have to start somewhere. I do it all inside my head
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