Laying down on the edge of a musty wall of a slightly secluded, sufficiently elevated square of my dwelling. Peering straight into these magnificent swirls of silver clouds; beams of sun escaping through it.
Through most part of our ephemeral existence we’re too engrossed making a living to notice;
The heavens open their gates frequently for us. At times it takes a quiet, languid afternoon of unwashed hair & ginger tea to make you notice; at times a glance above through sheer chance is enough.
Gaze. Watch. Contemplate. Let your soul rest. Let it breathe.
Hemingway had said that the sky is the daily bread of the eyes. Rightly so.
For I’m glued today. Beguiled by the work of art spread above me.
‘If all of us looked at the sky often, we’d live differently’, poured Bill Watterson through Calvin, a character tiny in stature and still unmarred by the filth of society yet capable of doling out excellent societal observations succinctly.
These frequent retreats from a world hard to keep up with are as necessary as physical sustenance. Else I’m sure, I’ll be incapable of carrying on for long.
Thankfully, the sky (for now) doesn’t have an expiry date.