r a n d o m

summer haze

These are my favourite types of days. The air is humid, and every second rain threatens to fall but doesn't. I lay on my back with my spotted dog and run my hand over his short fur. It's yellow outside, yellow grass rising feebly towards the air. It's just been cut. The yellow is interrupted by birds, brown and black dots that strut past like stage performers. I wish I could see the sky from inside, I bet it's white. That strange greyish white, that colour the sky takes on. Everyone talks about a blue sky, bright and expansive. They point their fingers and smile widely, exclaiming at the quality of the day. There is something about these days, rather than those bright days, that brings me happiness. The air is still, and the humidity hangs. I want to see the sky, but my little viewing hole does not permit it. Sometimes the view gets hazy, more hazy than usual. Sometimes I get the urge to push my fingers inside and claw at it, to open it wider and wider and wider. Strange, amorphous forms cheer me on, their words and cries echoing off the borders of my space. At times, these amorphous forms take on clearer entities and a word reaches me, just barely, only to dissolve once again into the void. I truly adore these days. These long, never-ending days. It's still, the surface of a lake, like running your fingers over smooth glass. Then again, sometimes the glass has an imperfection and your finger gets caught. A smooth bead of blood emerges. The faraway horizon grows darker, large forms rising from the ground, at first quiet wisps of smoke but next towering opaque forms. Still hazy. Everything is hazy, on these quiet days. I choose to lie in this haze, with my spotted dog. These days are my favourites, yet I wish to see just a peek of the sky.