We the Children of Clouds

We are the children of clouds, hiding from the day and waking when the Sun sets.

We walk gingerly among the remains of the day; concrete, sand, and stones. We press our ears to still-warm walls, and listen to the sound of heat leaving their frames. It lingers a while, echoing through the brick and mortar, a soft, almost inaudible whoosh. 

Heat rises, and we sink down low. Low and low into the bed of weeds, into the soft cradle of grass and wildflowers. We walk among the garbage of civilization and summon the forest of our dreams. Hearing our call, the weeds grow taller and taller and taller, until it engulfs the sky. We lie tiny and free beneath a canopy of weeds and the dusk deepens in the water pooled by our ears.

It’s an empty plot, a rarity in the kingdom of day. It’s empty because nobody could decide who truly owns it. So now we own it, after dark. We summon the spirits of trees and forest pools into dirty grass and sewer water. We summon the spirit of canoes into Styrofoam bits, and go on expeditions to faraway castles made from beer bottles. Monster butterflies guard our plastic caves, and we fall asleep in the soft black and white furs of a giant puppy’s belly. 

We, the children of clouds, punished by the day and embraced by the night. 

We work, eat, greet, smile, talk, fuck, shit all day as the dark sits like a stone inside us. We are not free till the night comes and calls the dark from our belly and lifts the curse that we must bear every day. 

We the children of clouds, banished from the light, dancing and singing and frolicking all night in our garbage paradise. 

If by happenstance you see one of us somewhere, don’t tell anyone. For we must hide where the Sun can’t reach, where the dark is free to roam. We must sing softly so noise can’t catch us, and silence is free to be.

We must hide, we must hide.

The accompanying image is by the mysterious Japanese artist Ariduka55 who hides their identity and exhibits their work on social media. I chanced upon this image in a post from Artfido.

Almost at the same time, I found a fellow Depression sufferer articulate on her Facebook page something I have thought for long; that most Depressed people tend to go through the daylight under some kind of rut but come truly alive only when the sun sets.

My gratitude to both of them.