Yes; I'm a secret.
I doubt I can ever explain why blue skies make me weak in the knees; have me soar over rolling green mountains and back again; tug at my heartstrings like nothing nor no one else ever can.
Yesterday, I gingerly lowered myself onto the prickly grass in our garden – with the long dark shadows of the mango tree momentarily serving as a magic carpet, the gentle breeze wrapping me in its embrace – I felt as though I was whisked away to many places. Maybe I had visited a beautiful European country with a hard-to-pronounce name, or had flew to a distant magical realm where dancing fairies live, wise animals talk, and magnificent dragons sleep.
The clouds – I was not aware that they can… disappear. One minute it was there, fluffy and floating like a lone bubble in your cup of coffee; the next, it was gone, having evaporated into nothingness, becoming a part of the air like the air itself.
Then I spied a passing airplane, and wondered a great many things about it. Where was it heading? Who made up its passengers – was there a brooding writer looking for inspiration in a faraway land, perhaps – or might there be a sleeping toddler onboard, who would one day grow up to be the greatest (and quirkiest) inventor of our generation?
I wondered if its passengers can see me, too.