There’s so much I want to write about.
Like how the dying sun turns the top of the trees red and colours part of the mountains in a foggy gradient of peach and blush pink. And how that creates a door that could carry you anywhere in time. I want to write about how I am slowly dragging away clouds with the tip of my fingers. About how the moon popped in to say hi in the middle of the day because it was lonely and it’s always scared we’ll forget about it. But then the moon only showed part of itself because it’s shy.
I want to paint with words the image of large, white clouds drifting behind solid mountains, casting shadows that provide shade to these proud giants.
I want to write about how the old mountains have roots that insinuate themselves deep into the Earth, and how the clouds are nomadic and are perpetually destroying and creating themselves all over again. I want to write about how they are both immense and mighty forces of Nature, how they are both beautiful and yet look nothing alike. I want to write about how beautiful it is to watch the two together (If they can be so disparate and share the same patch of Earth and sky, why can’t we, when we are all made of clay and a singular spark?)
And I want to write about the awful midnight feeling travelling somewhere in my body—but there’s too much to write, and there’s simply no time left.