Dear Time

Is the sky any other color but blue, navy blue, clouds drifting over, slate and granite rocks that moans as they move over head, shaking the earth with the sound of their voice? Was the grass any greener after the rain came down, dried up mostly leaving the ground wet with it's footprint? I felt as though I was losing it again to the sky, that it was being lifted up and away from my fingers, slipping out of them even as I kept floating higher and higher into the blue, slate sky. The house was white on the outside, run down with the wood dim brown underneath the paint as it flaked off, lost in the grass and the dirt around it. Everything around it circled, too. Somewhere there was a sun behind those clouds, behind the house so that the light came out in rays behind the clouds, in a way that the clouds around the house were lighter. I felt as though I was looking at the reflection of it all in my pupils, but the mirror in front of my face was broken, as if some one had taken a rock and thrown it dead center, shattering everything and leaving only the reflection of my thoughts in my pupils. The air smelled like mint, and the wind was only a breath that scrapped across the grass making it twitch lightly. 

But mostly, everything was silent, waiting for something to happen.

I moved across the ground like a ghost floating, as if I had no feet, put no effort into moving. I looked at the dark wooden door and it came closer and closer to me, like the earth was moving and I staying in the same spot in space. The hallway (dark and filled with end tables supporting small statues, some darker than others, faces distorted and growing long, or small, perfect, almost, with gentle features,) then the living room. The window took up almost an entire wall, so that you could see the grass outside, slightly falling into a forest of oaks and elm trees. A willow tree stood in the yard alone towards the left. Everything just where it should have been. The fan was on and the air was circling around the table, three books sitting next to a small journal. I felt as though it was still empty, empty because I couldn't arrange anything inside of my head, couldn't put it down into the right words yet. I sat down on the couch and picked it up. It felt light and empty, but I didn't open it. The point wasn't to see myself, I knew myself well enough, better than most people know themselves. Maybe there was no purpose, maybe they were just dreams from the past, sitting there in that house collecting dust as the wind died down more and more. The breath of all of my thoughts slowly crumbling like the paint outside. And maybe the wind wasn't a breath.

Maybe it was a sigh.

It should have been, at least. I could feel my feet again, each step; I went into the bedroom and lay down on the bed, face down with half of my face against the blanket. Everything passed over my back, behind my vision, everything that ever happened was behind my vision and all I could do was imagine how it was happening. I knew everything that had ever happened, that would ever happen in my head. Space was like a cream of gasses, white, purple, yellow, thick like water. In real life it wasn't, but in my head it was alive and seemed to move, pass through you. It was old, older than anything. I would float through it, out there in the open, as open as possible. I was afraid of the open but in that dream, I was comfortable. Everything was small, anything that could want me hard, even, were small. Out there in that space, everyone and everything became just as insignificant as everything else. Is it pathetic to find comfort in that meaninglessness? I didn't think so. The space felt like a blanket against my back, and eventually my eyes couldn't open again, eventually I was past it, past that dream, past space and into the limbo of thought and action, where anything that was thought could happen, tottering on the edge of a cliff and ready to fall off, or not ready. It was the point of indecisiveness.