The air up here is still and nothing stirs in the distance. It’s probably due to the fact that I, like many sit in an insignificant box within a box in the sky where crickets are nowhere to make a sound, way above the trees where birds don’t fly,
Not among the clouds but you can sure see for miles. Where the only visitor is the wind but on days like this it’s quiet and lonely. Its detached really is what it is, well except for those on my side and above and below and opposite, not to forget the many inside.
What I mean though is it’s detached from the real world. The one down below, the one I used to know a long time ago at my family home. A bungalow, 4 rooms on solid ground my father’s plot not just a number.
Truth be told it’s not the noise that I miss, not the wide roads and the cars hiss. I’ve got noise of my own up here, if not from my left then from above and if not from there then from the buzzing in my skull.
What I, like many up here really miss is steady ground and a short fall, with the possibility that if you feel like jumping out of your window in the middle of the night as I used to, once I was young when the wind swirled and I lost my footing, fell and woke up the whole household with
whimpers from a sprained ankle and wounded pride, it would not be labeled attempted suicide. It would be that I just missed the ground since it’s been lonely up here in dull limbo.
And I’m still gullible to howling winds mistaken for bad singing from a pubescent boy who like me loves tarmac beneath each sole on his feet and the feeling of being alive or in my case now, dead after a 50ft fall. It’s a hard decision and the lifts out; I’m too tired to take the stairs, to be here or down there.