The things I like to imagine

I like to imagine that the soft hiss of the distant highway may be just the soothing voice of a forest. From here, the sky is indeed too ample to be that of a groaning city, thus, I stretch myself into the flourishing lands of imagination…

And I imagine that the bright western lights aren’t just metal shields gleaming at the horizon line, drifting apart as I move away from them.

And so I imagine my dreams aren’t dozing off beneath the sliding shadow of a stocky spruce. No, they are not —I repeat to myself while cloudbanks screen my view with their imposing gray shades. I continue to imagine…

On some special days, the sky doesn’t seem out of reach. In fact, all it is is a giant silent pool, so static in its apparent proximity. It is easy, on days like this, to soak my index finger in it and swirl around all the dreams that left the triangular shadow of a tree. Their departure above ground can be glorious in the way they resist gravity with such aloofness. On clear days such as this, my dreams seem portentous and generous, and I swirl and swirl my finger in this giant pool called sky until the blue clings to my hand and my palm becomes a sea of depths and currents. All at once, everything’s in my hand…

How lonely and crowded the clear sky feels when, in its purity, the blue touches the ground! It is no coincidence that at this time around, clouds inexorably slide on it like creased curtains, and they limp and stumble upon each other until they crumple in woolly threads. So quiet yet energetic, clouds speed above me, and I wish I could see all the land they hug from up there.

So, sometimes I like to imagine I am a cloud —drifting and ever-changing, amorphic and candid, wispy and thick, I would keep moving on around the world, letting twirls of air make me all blue…

So many are the things I like to imagine!

Denali