Sky Eyes

WHEN you look up at the sky you see such a small piece of the actual, humongous plot of land-above-land that you like to believe it's flat. Sort of like a piece of cloth into which the sun, the clouds were sewn on - and the clouds perhaps none too well either, for the cirrus marshmallow-like puffs continuously moved about on it's surface, almost as if wondering, like nomads whose directions literally changed with the the very winds that blew against their cheeks, by this time perhaps frozen as hard as luck.
You see a flat surface but in reality the sky itself is just an atmosphere. A circular bubble of sorts surrounding the Earth. Only of course, you choosing to see through the view of the idle cloud watcher that you are, will call it all sorts of things. A place for birds to fly free, for the sun to drive his golden chariot over daily, blazing a trail that only fades reluctantly into night in the quiet evening when it is quite done mingling about with the little creatures about at such times.
You forget to remember and acknowledge that the small patch of sky you see is but a fragment of a portion of the sky over your country. The sky over your country is but a small percentage of the actual area of sky there actually is to be seen and witnessed. Lone people who have nothing better to do than travel the world with their savings will tell you they have seen plenty of pieces of sky, maybe to the point where they all begin to look the same.
So hold your breath. Hold your breath and for a moment imagine the clouds will stop moving along with you. That they will stop frolicking frivilously about, gilded by a sun they simultaneously steal the limelight from draw from, just to wait for you to release that breath. But don't let go yet. Hold it. Hold it till you know you have realized that you yet know nothing. Then let it go. Like the ugliest repercussion of the most regretted bad mistake, let it go. Like an issue you have long longed to forgive someone for, let it go. Forget. But remember to remember.