sky

Don't make your character that people can walk on it, make your character as sky so that people would dream to get there

I know everyone has dreams of flying, but this isn__ a dream of flying. It__ a dream of floating, and the ocean is not water but wind. I call it a dream, but it feels realer than my life.

A bird who wants to fly high will never frighten of sky

A friend gave me a rainbow as a gift, so I put it up in the sky so everyone could share.

Here in Alpha City, we have a common saying: __hat we call __ky_ is merely a figment of our narrative._ The most dreamy-eyed among us seem to adorn themselves and their aspirations in that proverb and you__l see it everywhere: in advertisements on the sides of streetcars and auto-rickshaws, spelled out in studs and rhinestones on designer jackets, emblazoned in the intricate designs of facial tattoos__ven painted on city walls by putrid vandals and inspiring street artists. There is something glorious about kneading out into the doughy firmament the depth and breadth of one__ own universe, in rendering the contours of a sky whose limits are predicated only upon the bounds of one__ own imagination. The fact of the matter is that we cannot see the natural sky at all here. It is something like a theoretical mathematical expression: like the square-root of __egative one___ertainly it could be said to have a purpose for existing, but to cast eyes upon it, in its natural quantity, would be something akin to casting one__ eyes upon the raw elements comprising our everyday sustenance. How many of us have even borne close witness to the minute chemical compounds that react to lend battery power to our portable electronics? The sky is indeed such a concealed fixture now. It is fair to say that we have purged our memories of its true face and so we can only approximate a canvas and project our desires upon it to our heart__ dearest fancy. The most cynical among us would ostensibly declare it an unavoidable tragedy, but perhaps even these hardened individuals could not remember the naked sky well enough to know if what they were missing was something worthwhile. Perhaps, it__ cynical of me to say so! In any case, we have our searchlights pointed upwards and crisscrossing that expanse of heavens as though to make some sensational and profane joke of ourselves to the surrounding universe. We beam already video images of beauty pageants and dancing contests with smiling mannequins who look like buffoons. And so, the face of space cloaks itself behind our light pollution__n this respect, our mirrored sidewalks and lustrous streets do little to help our cause__nd that face remains hidden from us in its jeering ridicule, its mocking laughter at this inexorable farce of human existence.

Every month there is a moon, gigantic, round, heavy, an omen. IT transits, pauses, continues on and passes out of sight, and I see despair coming towards me like famine. To feel that empty, again, again. I listen to my heart, wave upon wave, salty and red, continuing on and on, marking time.

The sky is so tragically beautiful. A graveyard of stars.

The cloudless day is richer at its close;A golden glory settles on the lea;Soft, stealing shadows hint of cool reposeTo mellowing landscape, and to calming sea.And in that nobler, gentler, lovelier light,The soul to sweeter, loftier bliss inclines;Freed form the noonday glare, the favour__ sightIncreasing grace in earth and sky divines.But ere the purest radiance crowns the green,Or fairest lustre fills th_ expectant grove,The twilight thickens, and the fleeting sceneLeaves but a hallow__ memory of love!

I rise from the moist crevice of thought, I beat on the shores of her holy body, I fall from the sky in silver sheets of sadness. Rise onto me my precious sun.

The sky was so blue I couldn__ look at it because it made me sad, swelling tears in my eyes and they dripped quietly on the floor as I got on with my day. I tried to keep my focus, ticked off the to-do list, did my chores. Packed orders, wrote emails, paid bills and rewrote stories,but the panic kept growing, exploding in my chest. Tears falling on the desktick tick tickme not making a soundand some days I just don't know what to do. Where to go or who to see and I try to be gentle, soft and kind,but anxiety eats you up and I just want to be fine.

If you can't get what you want, you end up doing something else, just to get some relief. Just to keep from going crazy. Because when you're sad enough, you look for ways to fill you up.

I can't recall the sound of your voiceStill, I bring flowers and meet the skyask it to hold me, too.

Someone might as well roll up the whole sky, pack it away for good.

At the edge you will always remember me, at the edge you will last be remembered, where sanity and insanity come together, for the time, then separates. Like leaves on October trees, that color the world, but for a moment, then leave. At the edge, where life losses its edginess, and thoughts we will become one, someday. At the edge the sun drops, the ring falls, and senses of raindrops climb upwards to the gray sky.

despairsometimeshope leads us on teases us withits shiny baublesits stunning horizonsit can carry us overthe roiling turmoilthe raging stormthen as easilywith its cornucopia of liesdrop us into the wavesto flounder against its loss

It tugs at me, filling me with the kind of seasick nostalgia that can hit you in the gut when you find an old concert ticket in your purse or an old coin machine ring you got down at the boardwalk on a day when you went searching for mermaids in the surf with your best friend.That punch of nostalgia hits me now and I start to sink down on the sky-coloured quilt, feeling the nubby fabric under my fingers, familiar as the topography of my hand.

When we look up at the sky, we are trying to find the way back to ourselves

...in that dilated moment after sunset when the sky holds all the light...