The View from Above

Everything looks great up here. Serene. Azure blue, and white wisps of clouds that look like stretched cotton, some like fat clumps of mashed potatoes.

Now I know I've reached my ceiling -- top of the world, Ma. Nowhere else to go but down, and damn is it refreshing to know that no one is watching me from above, no one looking down on me. That used to happen. That used to happen a lot, figuratively and literally. But none of that matters anymore. Up here, there is nothing but the swirl of winds and the calm blue, and I am one with all.

I used to look down a lot. At first it made me dizzy, like a man suddenly teleported onto a tight rope wire, but you get used to it, and eventually -- although I can only speak for myself -- you find yourself looking down less and less, until you can't recall the last time you did, and such a recollection no longer spurs a fondness for doing so. Minutes, days, centuries, millennia...it's all the same up here. There is no such thing as tedium. How could there be? If I want to look down upon my old world or the infinite others that exist within our

(universe)

being, I have the time, believe me. Maybe one day I will, but for now I'm content to sit up here, where the sky never darkens, where all fronts are quiet.

Maybe tomorrow I'll go shoot some hoops down at the high school, or catch a matinée of The Third Man at that cinema on Front Street. That might be nice.