On the road and caffeinated, sailing by the cloudy sea of heaven, I pause in wonder at the beauty of these passing, formless things. Here some are dark; others a brilliant white. Sometimes I’m driving in their shadow—in one instant, I might break through and find myself blinded by the sun. How beautiful, these formless things, which take on forms within the mind of man. I think that I am blessed; yea, all mankind is blessed, but I am blessed to know that I am blessed.
And here I turn my eyes back to myself and unto these surrounding me—people, beautiful people. In all their makes and molds they move about under the sky. Howbeit that I find these even more spectacular, these common animals which stand like gods upon the earth? But for the fact that clouds see not themselves and are not anything except that they are seen by these of which I am a part.
And is not human form itself something which may amaze, and we are justified to be amazed? An old one with his face all written on him; a young one, smooth and looking on ahead; a father; a man and wife; a family; all stories richer and deeper than a man may ever sound—even his own tale, a mystery unto himself.
The clouds are beautiful, and here today, are gone tomorrow. We, though we pretend an hour added here or there is anything, are not much longer lived. But timeless eyes, greater than yours, which ever seeing, seeing all, may hold today forevermore. What little gods we are, blind unto ourselves, mere phantom shadows of something far greater.
The clouds will pass, and we shall see the sun.
Tale Told 