Ridge of Blue

With great desire to cross the spackled range, the black speck trails over the rough white terrain in solitude. Just him, his walking stick and a worn canvas pack. With every two steps the sun, a millimeter closer. Meditating adventure.

Kill the lights. Beneath cool sheets, by just the glow of a silent screen, numbers are scratched onto a grid marked easy. My eyes begin to burn and I drift away. Slumber- interrupted by a persistent car alarm. I spot a light. Flicker, Flick... Flicker, Flick. The car alarm eventually subsides to reveal a sweet, subtle melody coming from above. I love harmonicas. An army green pyramid points down at me.

I float away again and find myself laying in the tall grass. Light dims down and back up again as clouds go by in the sunset. Amoeba-shaped shadows undulate throughout the range and the sky tries on everything in its closet.

I lift myself up from the earth and transport to the fourth of july. Trudging through the sloppy, deserted trails, I try and locate a single square of dry cloth to wipe my specs. The water only relocates on the glass and now fog is added to the mix. It marks a challenge and excitedly, I climb faster and faster. The further I venture, the heavier I become. And as I descend the mountain, satisfied, I am light.

Waking-woven dreaming.
That range became my ceiling.