The air up there in the clouds is very pure and fine, bracing and delicious. And why shouldn't it be? - it is the same the angels breathe. ~Mark Twain, "Roughing It"In a world above worlds, the clouds roll by me. Full. Whispy. Towering in strange shapes that fascinate the imagination. Where are they? The landscape is bizarre and unusual, just as the inhabitants must be. A peculiar people living in their airy existence. What might they be? A skyscraper towers up in front of me, sure to contain jobs. Possibly families. But I can’t see. They laugh at my frustration. They taunt me. They are there.
The sun flashes across my line of vision, causing me to look away. The moment passes and I look back. Nothing but blue and white fills my sight now. The wide expanse of the sky arrests my gaze, challenging me to come and conquer. It seems endless. The clouds invite me down, the people beckon to me. It seems attainable. I fall, cool air flowing over my body. I feel I am caught gently on the cushions of whiteness. I sigh in content.
It turns cold. My eyes snap open as their illusion gives way and I fall through very real water vapor. Plummeting toward the hard earth below. They laugh again at my naiveté. Who doesn’t know what clouds contain? What a dreamer this boy. My fall arrests. They put me back in my metal bird.
“Ladies and gentleman, the captain has turned on the fasten seat belt sign in preparation for our arrival. Please bring your seats and your trays into the upright and locked position—“
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