I feel some sort of restless content, wrestling with the idea of being content, of being at peace with the restless contents of my life. Like tracing the outline of clouds with my finger.
I sense the wind is in my favor and beckon the clouds with my outstretched arm, imagining I have the magic to summon intangible hopes and dreams into my real orbit.
I can see my life sprawled across the vastness of the hot, blue sky, the ever-evolving, gray tinged, puffy, white clouds of experience, floating serenely, providing perspective against the expanse.
Taken as a whole, the scene seems suspended, but a glimpse of an isolated cloud through squinting eyes discerns changing coordinates and the passage of time, prompting me to ponder my current location on the space-time continuum.
Two kites suspended, billowing, held afloat by the pleasant breeze, the same breeze gently caressing my bare arms and legs and face, tethered to the earth by a string made invisible with the fading light of day, presumably held by a young child, also invisible behind the height of the dunes, whose excited, high-pitched squeals, carried by the breeze, mark the only evidence of their pilot’s identity.
Seagulls swooping and flapping their wings, displaying aviation expertise as they coolly navigate the breeze’s oscillating currents.
As the sun continues to disappear behind, and its light evaporates west, pink and purple seep into the gray-tinged, puffy, white clouds of experience transforming them into a buffet of assorted cotton candy.