My clouds

Do clouds dream of faltering winds?

“You see those clouds over there?”

“Yeah. What?”

“They’re not meaningless. They are a sign.”

“Congratulations, you have just reached the same conclusion that pre-colombian peoples had achieved thousand years ago without even googling it. Darwin knew best.”

“Back-off, moron. Thunderstorms, rain, snow, are all fictions of the same climatic – maybe also climactic – truth.”

“Which is…”

“That time changes everything. The reason why we’re so fascinated about clouds, we spend hours looking at their curves, and softness, and manufacturing possible representations out of them, is simply because they won’t be there for long. Nobody stares all day long to that silly rock that vaguely resembles an one-legged peacock. That would be just silly.”

“So, we stare at clouds because they constantly change? That’s it? What’s the fiction on that?”

“What do you mean?”

“If you’re saying that clouds are fiction, then you’re stating that they are a mythical representation of something else, for any given purpose, or simply no purpose at all. But, clearly, fiction is something else than reality itself. But aren’t clouds the reality itself? Is there anything to see beyond the clouds?”

“Yes, that’s precisely my point from the beginning: my point has little to do with clouds, or snowstorms, or tornadoes, or any of their siblings, but, instead, goes on to why do we stare at them, why do they amaze us. Why do we get bewildered by the different shapes and messages they bring all along. Some clouds, especially the highest ones, the Cirrus type, usually remind us of any sort of a grain field, like a wheat or rye field. And it’s beautiful. Later on, some Cumulo-Nimbus appear everywhere, and then the sky gets worrysome, and heavy, and blunder, and sore, and conflictive. And then it opens. And we’re back in heaven, simple as that.”

“I see your point regarding representation, but what’s the connection with time? How come the change of weather holds any particular importance for me and you that are not a countryside farmer without artificial irrigation. Or Amish.”

“Because we can see, and we can move or necks up and down, and we can see this whole land of static things, were people move, but they don’t seem to. Where mountains are standing quietly for ages and don’t seem to be willing to scratch their own backs. The earthly world is busy with their earthly affairs, and earthly deeds, and everything seems to be just like the same, like yesterday, like what our grandfathers and mothers used to. But not in the sky. In the sky there are no parameters.”

“Do you understand that some people actually consider it a science and pretty much study a lot to garnish those parameters, right?”

“Yeah, I do, don’t be plain stupid, you see what I mean.”

“Yeah, I’m your average stupid. Go on.”

“So, in the sky it  is too hard to compare things. Things are always new, because you can’t take a cloud with your left hand, another one with the right hand, then bring them close until you can safely declare their relations regarding size, volume, and stuff. The only thing you can do, it’s compare with your memories of previous clouds, even though you may have just seen the other cloud just a few seconds ago. it is still something left in the past, that doesn’t belong to the everlong present.”

“Permission to be an asshole.”

“You’re Double-Oh-Asshole, with a life-long permit to be a boring imbecile. That’s one of the prerogatives of being a friend, being obnoxious and loved at the same time. Spit it, permission granted.”

“That problem was solved by Polaroid. And before that by the invention of photography. And before that, by painters, even the roaming pre-historic cave-dwellers from Lascaux. they all could picture the clouds, and then establish relations between what’s shown and what’s pictured.”

“Yes, but unless you live in a potterish world, pictures don’t move. Unless you’re Dorian Gray, your portrait won’t age. Time will be useless. Everything will remain as it is forever. And we won’t learn. And Time won’t reign. Stories won’t be set, simply because all of them need time, even though is a time beyond time itself. But clouds move, and wither, and fade, and, in some senses, they live just like we should, roaming, parting and tearing ourselves to tears. They’re simple like that. So are snowfall, rain dancing, tempests of travesty. That is their meaning. The meaning that life was supposed to be like that, fluid, constantly-changing.”

“That’s what it means for you… you mean. For me it may mean something completely different.”

“Like what, boy-o?”

“That your majesty and gleaming exceeds that of all comfy clouds, and snow flakes, and teardrops, and nothing I am able to craft, or represent, or even dream will ever be able to, now or ever, touch anyone as much as you inspire me, girl. Therefore, following your theory, you should always be the clouds, representation and matter of my being”



Sobre Wagner Artur Cabral

filosofia política e futebol
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6 respostas para My clouds

  1. looking4sth disse:

    Uau…you got me speechless…amazing…congrats

  2. suzana disse:

    ouch indeed

    you should be published in your living time.

  3. jean fhilippe disse:


    tenho sorte de ter primo assim!

  4. elho_ disse:

    Every black clouds has its silver linings. :)

  5. a couple days ago i saw a bear-chicken with a weird gigantic round nose on a cloud somewhere along a vacation trip, from the back seat of a car. it lasted only a few seconds, but it was enough to realize it couldn’t be real. what a shame… glad you’re writing such inspiring stuff, transcending reality and earthly diggressions into words, since they have the unique ability to shape those in a lasting form in every reader’s head. thanks for the ever-changing clouds from time to time. they kind of keep me on track. keep it up, dude.

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