The clouds paint images of high tops, peaks we shall not reach until destined to do so. The fate of our lives hang in the height of those tops, capable of raining down our bodies and relieving our souls of any despair we hold within ourselves. The swirls of grey and white, moving west in the morning lights, captivate those who dare to dream up its importance.
I can float above others in my own cloud of smoke, fabricating my own clouds out of my body, but this illusion dissipates faster than the heavens. I am left incapacitated, awaiting the moment where fate intervenes and I am lifted up by something other than myself. I have lost faith in the existence of those clouds and the secrets they hold, so I choose to lose myself in the clouds I create, believing only in the things I can control. The grey creates a ring about my head, my own personal cloud of doom.
Lulling Behind 