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username: altiora --- kalon name: blanche✴✴
- Have you ever wanted something so desperately it burns like a fire in your stomach? Or loved something so fiercely that gravity loses its hold on you? Maybe you've ever felt so connected to the world around you, all its flaws and inconsistencies and beautiful existence, that all the want and love in the world could never compare to the soft desire that permeates your whole body; this love and want for the universe itself creating ripples in your dreams; the future itself, in all infinite permutations, occupying your every thought?
- Lying upon soft feather-down grass, hair spilling out softly behind them, they are unaware of the dirt and the ladybug that will eventually decide to call the white tresses home. Observe the late evening sky spilling out from the surrounding horizon that's painted with snowcapped mountains and thick pine woods; you can smell the forests from here, that sweet scent of citrus beyond the distinct pleasant odour of earthy petrichor.
They watch the clouds. They're cirrostratus, cumulus - it was a very fair day for spring, with pleasant light showers and a gentle breeze. Warm and light, soft and safe, they let their mind wander.
It never drifts far away.
- High, on a mountain's summit: surrounded by vast amounts of space, they are engulfed by the voids around them. Paws, cold on frost and snow. The wind is icy, unintentionally cruel. You look up. The sky is black tar, but the stars are dazzling bright and fly through it with ease - like a long exposure photograph or time-lapse of the night, or a meteor shower taking advantage of open skies. Was it one, or all three? Their mind saw a masterpiece - one that was ordained by nature, and awaited the pen of time.
They daydreamed of what they would probably never see - all the wonders of existence, the miracles of the past and the future and the now. Elsewhere, where their body-afflicted soul could not travel by the laws of physicality.
- A stream babbles centuries ago, a brook that runs through the forest. It hydrates the birds and squirrels, the foxes and plants. They do not run when they see you, dappled as you are by the pink sunlight of dawn. Instead, they play like the sun motes do, a fateful dance of movement and energy. The roles they all have, masterfully acted. You drink from the water, crisp on your tongue. Below you, emerald moss and technicolour lichen grows.
- The present, right now, but six thousand feet above. You're dancing beyond cotton-soft clouds, painted pale yellows by the drowsy sun. Above, the myriad of colours dissolves from obsidian to cobalt, to lavender and ivory and rose - the last vestiges of cirrostratus, so high above, breathes its last nostalgic breath.
Below: you see yourself, in impossible clarity, recursive infinity. Cushioned by a bed of clouds, you looking over the edge.
But there is no ground-
- only you and the sky.
[497 words - border © myself]
