When I have nothing better to do, I lie on my bed and look up at my skylight. I've watched rain fall, lightning illuminate the sky, and snowflakes slide down the pane, but mostly my ever-changing canvas shows clouds.
Clouds are odd. I wouldn't classify them as their own weather condition but rather as a transitional state. You cannot go from a sunny day to a storm without it having being overcast in between. The white wisps above act as a signal for us to move indoors, a warning that what we knew is, for now at least, over.
It was you who first taught me to look up and start appreciating the world outside my bubble. Beforehand I was very much stuck in the city mind-set: stare ahead, don't interact, and if someone asks you a question, they must be after your phone. Now I see everything anew. Anything can be amazing.
And then you left. Having converted me to your way of thinking, you went to preach to another. I struggled to find solace in the small things for a while but then one day whilst in the garden I looked up. I saw one small solitary cloud and then it hit me: what I'm feeling is temporary. This mood, like a cloud, will pass. Once it's rolled away, normal service will be resumed. The sun will come out.
To remind me of this very fact, I ordered a skylight for my room.
No comments:
Post a Comment