Clouds - Look at the sky. by Rachel
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I wrote this in August, when I was 14. I was at the playground, brooding about the state of the world today. Funny thing to do at a playground, huh?
When I went home, I wrote these thoughts down in an email which I sent to several friends. (just in case it was an underlying pyschological problem that would lead to self-destructive tendencies. It was not.)
I'm not sure what the genre of this is...Biography & Memoirs / Health, Mind & Body / Outdoors & Nature / Spirituality...
chapters
chapter 1:
Look at the sky.
Look at the sky.
chapter 1
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updated Jun 21, 2009
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2249 characters
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I stared up at the sky today, sitting on a swing. I stared at the clouds. I looked for stars, but I guess it was too bright out, still. But they could see us, though. Whoever they were. They could see us. The twilight sky is like a different sort of looking glass. You can't see anything behind it, but you're never sure whether they can't see you, either.
The clouds were so beautiful. Little soft and weightless tufts that somehow or another remind me of fine wool, of cotton, of everything graceful and gentle that ever is and was. So...untame, free to go whereever they please. They appear to have gotten used to this sort of freedom, for to me it seems that they always take things slowly; So at ease, unhasty, carefree. They go where the wind takes them, for it leads them true.
I wondered if that was what heaven was like. Perpetual calm and weightlessness. I saw an aeroplane fly past, and I thought how lucky the passengers were to be so close to the clouds. And then I started to cry.
There were never going to be the same clouds. They never held the same formation, never repeated their dance. And then one day, there would be no clouds at all. Or rather, none that we would be able to enjoy. I wonder, when was the last time you looked up at the sky and just stared at was there.
It was the first time I really, really hoped that those science fiction stories came close to reality, or that perhaps life would imitate art. I really wished that it wouldn't be just words, and talk, and dreams.
I wanted everyone to stop; stop debating, stop discussing, stop proposing, and just do. Everyone is a hypocrite. They draw posters, hold campaigns, write slogans, but when have they really opened their eyes? Do they see the rubbish and shards of glass from broken beer bottles litter the play grounds? Do they bother to pick them up? Do they see the candy wrappers strewn all over the floor? They see and yet they are blind. I saw, too. And yet I didn't pick them up, either. Everyone's a hypocrite.
And then I got off the swing, and went home and wrote this to you. I have an entire house-load of unspoken thoughts in my mind, and at least I shared this one with you.
(Taken from an email to personal friends.)
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The clouds were so beautiful. Little soft and weightless tufts that somehow or another remind me of fine wool, of cotton, of everything graceful and gentle that ever is and was. So...untame, free to go whereever they please. They appear to have gotten used to this sort of freedom, for to me it seems that they always take things slowly; So at ease, unhasty, carefree. They go where the wind takes them, for it leads them true.
I wondered if that was what heaven was like. Perpetual calm and weightlessness. I saw an aeroplane fly past, and I thought how lucky the passengers were to be so close to the clouds. And then I started to cry.
There were never going to be the same clouds. They never held the same formation, never repeated their dance. And then one day, there would be no clouds at all. Or rather, none that we would be able to enjoy. I wonder, when was the last time you looked up at the sky and just stared at was there.
It was the first time I really, really hoped that those science fiction stories came close to reality, or that perhaps life would imitate art. I really wished that it wouldn't be just words, and talk, and dreams.
I wanted everyone to stop; stop debating, stop discussing, stop proposing, and just do. Everyone is a hypocrite. They draw posters, hold campaigns, write slogans, but when have they really opened their eyes? Do they see the rubbish and shards of glass from broken beer bottles litter the play grounds? Do they bother to pick them up? Do they see the candy wrappers strewn all over the floor? They see and yet they are blind. I saw, too. And yet I didn't pick them up, either. Everyone's a hypocrite.
And then I got off the swing, and went home and wrote this to you. I have an entire house-load of unspoken thoughts in my mind, and at least I shared this one with you.
(Taken from an email to personal friends.)
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