rubbish writing: my head was full, but my thoughts mean nothing
the time has finally come when im once again easily able to leave myself behind like i so long to do. leave my body in the bed and fly out of my window. never bothering to remove the screen. i just float easily through it, essence broken into thousands of pieces and seamlessly reassembled on the other side. and ill fly through that air, over and under trees. sometimes swooping down to let my fingers drag the grass and tasting the fresh morning dew while the sun is still rising and everything is still beautiful. the laughter fills the air and all is right, with not a chance of left. and i soar to my favourite spot, in the middle of the wheat field and i land quietly, to lay on my back and stare up at the sunrise, light catching the edges of everything. the sunlight filters through nearby tree, flickering, but i pay it no mind, observing, instead, the objects in the sky, all fluffy white. and being tickled by the heads of wheat, i giggle with delight because theyre always my favourites, the clouds make shapes. the shapes make clouds as ethereal hands reach down into the blue to place more cattail fluff picked from mars, because, no matter what they say, there is life there, but it all blends so well. everything growing carries a red tinge and thats why the sky gets red when the sun sets. it weeps for the parting of its friend. and the tear drops make stars of the most beautiful kind, twinkling, sad and lonely in the nights inky depths. but everyone knows that the sun will come up and everything looks better in the mornings, and thats why he does it. for god is not a man, but a childlike entity. a skewed sense of reality and dream and every form of fabrication. people get so angry when they see others suffering and they wonder how can a merciful god do such things, that god must be a cruel and miserable being, but that is not the case at all. that is why, sometimes, people really do get what they deserve, and thats why people are so easily forgiven, because children are like that. and that is why there are shapes in the clouds. vaguely reminiscent of when you, yourself, were a child and brought home pictures made of various pasta, glues messily, but with the greatest of care to a paper... for someone you cared oh so very much about. but you may look at me skeptically. you may wonder how i know these things and the answer is this: sometimes when i have gone to bed very sad and lonely, i wake in the very early morning and open my curtains to the sleepy sun and see, upon my second floor window ledge, a single dandelion. and it is only children that understand these are not weeds. it is only children that understand the beautiful story behind them.