The Sky
Sometimes, there are days where the sky is tinted a hundred different gradients of grey. She wants to paint it; it’s like the forbidding expression of God colouring the entire sky and Earth and the souls of everything alive. It would be menacing only it’s the frown of a stern old man who acts mean but cuddles the stray cats when no one’s looking. But on other days, when the sky is a cornflower blue, she feels like running out to revel in the day, to sear the sky into her memory so that it stays there even after the burn has peeled off her shoulders.
And then, there are days like today when she could care less what colour the sky is, and the sky could care less about her. There is only a bottomless chasm that yawps out below her and she can feel the hands, all faceless and nameless, pushing her harder towards that leering, gaping hole. And she screams but nothing comes out, there is only the insistent pressure of thousands of hands at her back, whispering ‘Go on, go on, just go,’ and there is nothing she can do but succumb. On those days, there is no sky.
And then, there are days like today when she could care less what colour the sky is, and the sky could care less about her. There is only a bottomless chasm that yawps out below her and she can feel the hands, all faceless and nameless, pushing her harder towards that leering, gaping hole. And she screams but nothing comes out, there is only the insistent pressure of thousands of hands at her back, whispering ‘Go on, go on, just go,’ and there is nothing she can do but succumb. On those days, there is no sky.