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Poetic Prose

We Don’t See Enough of the Sky

We don’t see enough of the sky.

The most we see are glimpses through the gratefully granted cracks between buildings. We spend our days and nights staring at blanks ceilings, plain ceilings, dead ceilings. We spend our lives engrossed in dead things, forever waiting to join them in their eternal slumber. We are jealous of their peace. We envy their rest. We yearn for that sleep, that nonchalance.

Everything we do, we do it for the future. We plan and we plan and we plane. We make the assumption that the future exists.

We do not know the future. ‘“The future’s not ours to see, que sera sera.” And yet we say, “shall, will, might.” We deal in things that are yet to happen. In the future, we will go to universities. In the future, we will study the wonderous possibilities this world offers. In the future, we will make the decisions that lead us to a cleaner Earth. In the future, we will live our dreams. In the future, we will be truly alive. Alas, tomorrow never comes, and we sit with glazed eyes, staring at the dead ceiling, waiting for our date with Death, wondering what she’ll wear.

Meanwhile, the sky watches us. We travel from room to room in a room, constantly boxed in. We don’t see the sky enough, but It watches us. It sees our endeavours and knows our dreams. It was here long before we were born, and will be here long after we finally die. It surrounds us, protects us, preserves us, and we don’t spare it a second glance. We don’t even acknowledge Its existence.

Here’s a simple question: what colour is the sky?

Blue, of course.

Nope.

Look at it, O smug reader. It is not blue. It is the colour of life. It stretches out farther than the eye can see. It teems with life. Stare into its wisdom, O smug reader. See that it knows. See that it stares right back at you. ‘I’m here, son,’ It says, with reassuring eyes. ‘Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere.’

How can we claim to have problems? How can we claim to be in distress? How can we be anything but grateful for the sky’s wondrous reach? We batter it, assault it, and riddle it with our bullets of gas. Yet, we complain of misery? With every molecule in the sky crying out in pain at once, how can we complain about poor grades, bullies, or that girl who just will not say yes? As we complain about the future, we destroy the shield that protects us from the perilous present.

We don’t see enough of the Sky. All we see are tiny slivers through the cracks our buildings allow us. If only we saw it, regarded it in its infinite wisdom, we’d see the colours of life and the vibrance of the kky. Only when we see its life will we see how truly dead we are.

We don’t see enough of the sky.

If we did, we would come alive.