Eyes Like the Rising Sun

The sun rose that morning and it was as if the sky just took a breath out for once, minty green as if some one had just brushed their teeth. Only it was that kind of wind that blows in after the rain had set in, in the morning, rushing in with the dew and the clouds as they all retreat further on into the horizon, past the milky twilight. Nothing went to plan any day that it was, whether or not the morning sky was red or yellow or orange or blue, it always turned out the same. My eyes opened up just like any day, and I rolled off of my bed onto the floor feeling like a newborn baby rushing out onto the floor and into reality. Everything was back and it was the same old dream I always dreamed when I was awake. Five in the morning and wondering whether or not I should go back to bed, get those few extra hours in until it turns into several, until it's 12 or 1 in the afternoon. That was the plan, that was always the plan, but it didn't turn out that way. I felt as though there was dew outside of my window, hovering over the forest, like a cloud that I could touch and swim in for myself. The forest was calling out every name on the face of the earth but no one was listening. We were all sleeping. I was sleeping. You were sleeping.

How would we find anyone if we were all so opiated?

Looks didn't matter and neither did deoderant so I just put on a shirt and some pants and boots. Every now and then you wake up like the wind and you just want to rush out there into the sky as much as possible by running as much as possible until you start to lift into the sky. Maybe that would happen. When I took a step outside I felt like everything in my life came down to maybe's, and whether or not that would change depended on small weights that effected the entire system of gears or pulleys, some sort of mechanical image, any, really. but just small fractions of weights, hardly enough to change that maybe into action, but just so. I looked up at the sky (pasty gray and somewhat dark blue and stuck inside of a misty cloud walking into the forest,) and realized that so much action has been due to inaction. I sighed and ran through the forest once I reached the trail.

Green, red, and blue, just like that, one two three whenever the urge comes up. And why not? I think too many people chain themselves in the idea that they can't do something. Chains made of excuses, what people would think, how society would react, effort and money. What did it matter? And why should it have to be a forest? Or the morning?

I woke back up onto a beach. The wind stung my face, washing it clean like marble like a cold, metal brush. I didn't know, my eyes were heavy and I felt like I was asleep. Would you come up in the tide? I feel like, if you did, it'd be something better than driftwood, some secret treasure that's been underneath the dark water for years, decades, centuries. But not something ridiculous and obnoxious, something simple and nice. Something that you could look at and put a life to it. I've always wanted to do that.

One day I'll go on a road trip with everyone and write a story for each barn or tractor or broken-down vehicle I see. They'll all be about people being people with mild emotions. Maybe one person will be bipolar. Another will lose his head. Maybe even one will have multiple personalities, but probably not.

One day I'll wake up from this, right? Not that I want to or need to. I like it here. The wind always blows in. You can watch it sweep in from the sea. Slow and beautiful like dew.