Watching through…

It was a Tuesday like any other. Almost. My heart was panting and my dreams were floating. I couldn’t focus more than three minutes to intertwine two sentences. That Tuesday, I didn’t want to write. Was Mars fooling with me in that dedicated day? Or was it a random day – like today in fact – when inspiration had whimsically abandoned me? I therefore wandered through my keyboard, I winded from my desk lamp to my teapot. Like a lost – yet raised with joy – soul. My heart was too cheered up to get my imagination on a roll. I then sheltered in front of my room’s golden window, window through the uninhabited world. My look got lost in the clouds’ dance as they were telling me cloudy stories. Ones which I would never write. Ones which were only passing by. Ones which could only be lived.

When suddenly – or was it slowly? -, wind, sun and clouds created as one an extraordinary phenomena in my sight. Unprecedented. A sublimation of my dream. I used my telescopic vision through those lens-shaped clouds and I gazed at my soul, at invisible worlds.

Of what immobility had I become the Empress? I had been frozen in my bed’s white and soft shit like a forgotten princess, the world out of my reach, out of any reach, for almost a year and I had finally learned how to enjoy this universal beauty which had decided to show up on Carcassonne’s profane and heathen roofs. That sky would have been so much more beautiful on Utah Great Salt Lake, so much more balanced above the Olympic Peninsula from Victoria, so much more wonderful under Denali’s ridge. Here, its walls were made of basic and identical seventies houses. And that bloody antenna was definitely spoiling my attempts of a picture. Yes but it was here. Now. Nowhere else. Like a gift for my immobility. Once mandatory. Now adopted. Or at least followed.

Then , even if the set was not ideal, I didn’t want to be anywhere else in the world. I wanted to be. Here. Now. I wanted to watch through that shimmery lens, through my nacre memories, through my braided words. I was full. Of simple happiness. That heaven sky was not – like some foreign scenery was a few months ago – the reason of my joy anymore, it was a demonstration of it. I was full. Of love. Of promises. Of hope. Of opportunity. I was, before the kaleidoscope. I would be, after the periscope.

Whereas the cloud making was a long process, magnified by the last shiny bit of sun; the disappearance did happen suddenly. Fleeting beauty offered by the Gods of Wind, Water, Light and Earth to tell us something. Or maybe not. To let us make a dream out of it. Or a story. Because, now, held by my kaleidoscopic telescope, I stretch my spyglass on my imagination in order to deliver this poem.