the threads in her head

The sky was like a big blue dish, lighted up by an warm orange glow from the rising sun - an orange that picked up on the pinkish tinge of the clouds. And the clouds themselves, they were thick swirls of vanilla ice cream with strawberry sauce drizzled generously on them, large and overwhelming in its sheer size.

And there was a plane, so small against that huge blue dish of ice cream, and as it flew, it seemed on a short time before it would be swallowed up, eaten by the giant ice cream, instead of the other way round. So small, so small it looked indeed, more like a little myna, if not for the fact that it had the distinctive angular shape of a plane. High up in the sky it represented the realisation of Man's dream to fly, to conquer the skies, and yet, its mere size against the vastness of that great expanse of blue, whites and pinks suggested that Man yet are king of the skies.

It flew, the plane, as the girl sighed. It flew, it continued to fly, off to its new destination, while the girl walked to her old. And in that split moment it did not matter whether the plane had really conquered the skies or not - that had become of little importance. What mattered, was that it was an instrument of getaway. All the lofty thoughts faded, the perspective of the girl's mind descended to now, the present, and once again she saw herself in a place enclosed by fences, walking to a smaller place enclosed by four walls.

Almost, almost like a jail it was, yet not. For within this enclosed space lay the bulk of her social circle, a great deal of fun, a wide expertise of knowledge. Such conflict of physical space and intangible ideals - which in itself was, at times, not a hundred percent fulfilled - held such irony that it appeased her raging thoughts and emotions, and cooled her down, for just that little while more.

Just that little while more.