I did not want the clouds to clear, grey and dense. But, they were not clouds at all. Is that why I wanted them to stay there like a heavy curtain with a part of the sun breaking in like a ghost of the undead? Was this betrayal and by whom?
It was late morning and a shaft of light hit the wall of the room. There was nothing to it, except that the walls I look at everyday seemed to have transformed. The sky was with me. Yes, the whole sky. Or so I thought. And think. On days like this. On most days. For, most days are like this. Betrayals. Of oneself. By oneself. Because we believe in words, in thoughts, we make the clouds are own. We own them, own up to them.
I captured them on my cellphone camera, its glass stained with finger imprints and blurred breath. I showed it to someone; she said it is fog…clouds…everything but the wall.
Traitors. Walls. Clouds. Fingers. Breath. Belief.