the threads in her head

cotton candy clouds-

It was a glorious sight that greeted my eyes when I came out of the house - the various tall buildings of the heartland shrouded in bluish-grey mist, edges blur by the distortion, seemingly rising out of nothing, merely thick thick smoke, as though one could plunge in and never reach end, as if there were countless mysteries beneath, as if, someone had finally succeeded in constructing buildings on the cloud. And yet, to my right was a cloud dyed pink, orange, light - it glowed, puffy, nearly round, the most gorgeous of orangey-pink, pinkish-orange, like the most delicious of cotton candy, a flavour of, of... who knows? A strawberry with a hint of sweet orange? The other way round? A dash of red dragonfruit, sweetened with the juice of pears?

Perhaps, perhaps, in the sky there grows a fruit beyond our imagination, or perhaps the clouds are fruits, and the sky one giant creeper that holds on to a ceiling which we cannot see. The clouds its fruit - one that blooms from the gentle streaks of long flowers into gigantic puffy mass in the sky that would then explode into rain – no, seeds, that sought a home in the soil of the earth, but found none in the cold dank grey concrete or brick of pavement and buildings. Seeds with a life, which fought to live, which ducked away as though it was something not to be seen, which snaked here and there and finally laid there, dead, only to be picked up again by the sky, the heat of the sun after a long long while. But then, there are those, those that managed to find a home, in parched sand and rich soil, taken up and drank as life itself by plants and animals alike.

Or perhaps the clouds are baked treats, specially made goodies, in which more care and design had to be put into, in which the various good fruit, flavours and scent of the earth have to be gathered with gentle care by invisible hands, things that made their living up there among the wild restless playful winds and their mothers, still air. Then in the sky they are carefully kept, and slowly made, special treats for special days, like the birthdays of the various stars and winds.

What they are no one really knows, only that these clouds are plucked (thought not often) by quick nimble fingers, fingers with mouths waiting eager for the treat that would follow after. A fruit, a dessert? – no one knows those, only that these pink-orange tinted clouds have sugar was pure, sweetness was light, which when eaten brought people up, made them float into the sky

Such, is the fate of all people who managed to reach the clouds, touched it and tasted a piece for themselves. They float up, up, up into the sky, never to come down, not able to be seen by others, never able to tell their story to anyone. I’ve seen them before – it was mere luck that brought me close to a cloud, and better luck for one of those cloud person to warn me before I put the sweet pink light cloud I had just snatched into my body - I never ate it, I let it go, which is why I say I do not know what it tastes like. But still I wonder. I wonder often. How they taste like. How they are made. How, they perform the strangest and most bewildering magic within us…

But I do forget myself - these things do wind on so. Look, while I was speaking the sky had turned blue, the sweetest and lightest of a robin egg blue, like a special dessert plate (dessert slave) just to hold the special cloud cotton candy lightness.