Cumulus clouds are my favorite. Dollops of whipped cream on a sunbeam. Only blue skies for miles and yet, it’s as if they each hold a memory, taunting that they might spill over and drench the world in nostalgia.
Cumulonimbus, the giant. The great force. Your hair stands on your neck as the earth grows quiet, electricity coursing through your veins. Severity in their height, danger in their breadth. The swirling air bringing nightmares to your bedroom, setting stones on your forehead as you sleep.
Have you ever seen a cloud and felt its weight on your shoulders; known that it was heavy with more than rain? Sensed the tension building in the atmosphere and behind your eyes, your head swimming? Sinking.
Have you ever wondered if dreams fall from the clouds? Is that why the rain births a new world? As if the clouds themselves are full of anger and weep with regret until the flowers are watered and the dirt is washed away. I can hear it. The rain on the roof. Such a comfort, especially at night.
Nimbostratus hovering dark over the horizon. Lying in wait for some poor soul to venture out with a heart full of sunlight only to be doused like a lit candle dropped in a bucket of water. Can you hear the sizzle of the flame? Smell the smoke rising off the water? Can you smell the rain before it starts?
Breathe deep, my dearest. Breathe the earth into your lungs. The moisture thick, almost alive. Down to my lungs it races and awakes something in me. Something in my core.
What if dreams roam the cosmos like some distant planet until they collide with our universe, scattering and bouncing from particle to particle until they find water and stick. Maybe dreams hold to water the same way that life does.
What if we all, what if it all
comes from the clouds?