flyin high

just tidbits from the empty time in flight.

I've discovered magic in the air.

I look up at the expansive plain of sky enveloping my world, a cotton sheet of grey and blue and shades of color that shift with the moods of time, and I am small.

I am separated and reaching and wondering. 

But now I've been lifted.

Up.

I look out at the rolling terrain of clouds, and I know where all the unicorns have gone.

They gallop in swirls of precipitation, riding on the memory, the afterthought of waves. 

Puffy dragons grip the horizon with bone white claws and breathe out cool vapors of steam.

There are fairies outside my window, astral and formless.

They'd be invisible if it weren't for the reflection of the sun off their wings.

They wonder how I got so high.

North is howling, beating at this steel excuse for wings.

He's trying to speak to me, but he moves too fast and I am left with my hands over my ears and a smile. 

I am the blue of the sky.

I am floating in it's depth and I feel infinitely small.

Being in the air is like being in limbo.

This high up, there is no world below, just a thick fog of subconsciousness. 

This is most possibly the origin of all dull thoughts.

The soul of all boring people lackadaisically floated down from this stretch of void.

This is where the sun goes when he's not feeling well, not behind the clouds but above, where he can't see his children killing their mothe, fighting themselves. 

I feel odd to be intruding. 

In this lack of detail, I am thankful for the reservoir of my memory.

At least I can be sure there is more, but I have ascertained the certainty that this is no heaven. 

This high up, I am one with every direction, and the border of the sky and sea just blends into the reflections of each other.

Our whole atmosphere is a translucent mist of lightwaves, blue, blue, blue. 

Above the clouds, I realize we are always under water. 

This close to the sun, we don't have a shadow. 

The veins running across and beneath the tundric waves of a barren landscape resemble constellations, nailed down to the earth, more full of natural history than the expansive possibility that is wired across and between every star.