Clouds Aren’t Real
I drive home a lot–every weekend this semester, actually. I only live two or so hours away from campus, so it’s not a crazy long trip, and the mountains are quite beautiful this time of year, especially when the sun is setting. Recently, I find myself gazing too long towards the landscape; sometimes I even end up veering out of my lane just to watch clouds soak in their color. They’re my favorite thing of all. When I’m isolated like that—behind the wheel, foot on the gas pedal, going a little faster than I should be—my mind seems to clear, and in that vast emptiness new ideas begin to grow. In these moments, I find myself drawn to the nature around me. I wish to understand the towering mountains and the iridescent drift of looming clouds. A bird soars overhead. I wonder what species it is, my grandfather would know. He’s a birdwatcher himself and has a love for astrology. At a family dinner last month, I discovered how little I knew of his intelligence. When I asked him about the northern lights, he taught me the chemistry and complexity of their formation. I’ve never given him the credit he was due, but in those moments on the road, I think of my grandfather. I hope one day to be as knowledgeable as him, and so, I look out towards the trees, lower my windows and let the wind clear my mind.
…
It happened again a few weeks ago. This time it wasn’t a highway, but a McDonald’s drive-through. I just ordered my usual: two spicy McChickens with lettuce and cheese, two apple pies, and a Diet Coke. There was a kid skateboarding in the parking lot and a uniformed man leaning against a car nearby. He was also watching this aimless youth while smoking a cigarette. Above them were candy floss clouds heavy with a sense of gloom. Looking at them, none of it felt real. I couldn’t believe I was the only one enraptured by this unending sky. Its elastic immensity governed my thoughts. I struggled to find the words that would explain my infatuation. The beginning of a poem flashed through my mind and I tried to hold onto it before it disappeared. A familiar picture lit up my dashboard as speakers rang and I answered a call. That’s when the thought began to fade and eventually, it was gone. For a few minutes, I was actually angry that my girlfriend had called. It felt as though something had been taken from me, like a seed that was about to sprout was ripped from the soil. Looking back towards the clouds, they seemed farther away. A distance has grown between us. I took them in as long as I could, but the conveyor belt of cars began to move—my food was ready. No matter how long I stared, I was never going to understand them or find the words to honor their visage. Without the seed I was ignorant, incapable.
…
I always forget how quickly the day turns dark this time of year. Just yesterday while leaving class, the sun had almost entirely set. Directly above were the usual gray clouds, the kind that hover overhead the day before a storm, but as I approached the street–a battlefield came into view. To the left where the sun had set, were sharp, serrated clouds like daggers dipped in chromatic crimson; some blades blessed with a pink fairy-light and iron at their center, others spritzed with bits of citrus amber. To the right, were cotton clouds seemingly invested with black mold; their insides filled with an abyssal ichor waiting to shower over all. The depth of their darkness felt palpable, like it was seeping into the air. While gazing upon them, I couldn’t find the words to describe how they filled my mind. It happens to me often. I find myself crippled by something like this fractured fissure in the sky—a war of day and night—and I feel like a child with no understanding of the world. The words that flow through my mind are weak and undeserving. I pledge to read more in hopes of strengthening my vocabulary, but I never do. I get lost in other passions and forget my impending ignorance. It shrouds my eyes and muddles my thoughts until everything is a blur. I can’t move, or see—the dark or the light. I’m stuck glaring at the common gray clouds in between, separate from the rest of the world.
