A cloud creates the face of a man who, happening to
look up, recognizes it as his own. The face under stress
of the wind begins to disintegrate into wings, and the
man sees in himself the ability to fly. He stretches forth
his arms and raises them up and down as he begins to
circle and dip as a birdman would in the currents of the
wind, and then the face vanishes and the wings drift
apart too, losing their forms in shreds and patches. By
this, he foretells his aging, debility and eventual death;
he can accept. The clouds darken, as they will; thunder
rolls from their colliding with each other. Lightning
flashes. He knows he is at war with himself, the reason
for which he cannot go into at the moment; the war
first must be fought for and against himself, and he
stands in the pouring rain that has started at the first
thunderclap. Though the face he had seen has dis
appeared, yet it is of the clouds that it was created and
of which he feels himself a part, and so the rain is how
he weeps at his loss among the clouds. There is no
consolation, not until the rain ceases and the sun
emerges and once more clouds arrive, white, brilliantly
lit and so, for him, full of hope. He has not attempted
to sort out his, as it seems, random feelings since sight
of the face. There is no order to his feelings, he is
certain, but he needs none, not while the sun rises and
sets and weather prevails. It is from weather that he
derives, and so he has no faults. He is without fault, he
is of the weather.
A Cloud Creates
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