On a rainy August night, I slept tired. A friend had been lost and found in a way I’d rather not see again.
In my sleep, I woke up to the most beautiful view in my dream. A majestic sky that turns pink, blue, and orange, everything that joy looks like when you are younger. Amidst the riot of colors, a range of mountains emerged from the canvas of what life had looked like on some days.
I stood on the other side of a window that gave me a direct view of beauty that is fleeting. I rushed with my phone outside to better capture that view, but the sun had set, and the mountains were just a blind spot.
The 7:00 a.m. alarm isn’t my favorite sound, but it is what sets my day in motion. I wake up to it and see a sad, gloomy morning sky, expecting rain any minute now.
On some days writing like this is a privilege. I have enough space in my head to sit and feel. Working through words that may or may not make sense, but just to form sentences and stitch together words that mean more than what you see is nothing but the sheer luxury of a mind that is now beginning to understand. To absorb. To rationalize what needn’t be justified, the mere realization of this ability is a breakthrough.
An overcast sky is majestic in its own way. Sadder eyes are softer, more used to darker rooms and gentle light. The depth and darkness under them are not yet ready to face the sun.
Beauty does not look the same every day. Some of it you see with your eyes wide open, some curled upin your bed, eyes closed.
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