yesha Zeb

I feel something unfamiliar whenever I see clouds over my head. There's a beautiful yet sorrowful feeling that seems to be attached to them; and even now, as I sit deep in thought, I fail to fully describe that feeling. So buckle up, as you join me in discovering the odd nature of clouds.

When the clouds cover the night sky, there's something so overwhelmingly boundless about them. Gazing at them feels like staring at a picture of someone who visits me rarely or never. And standing beneath their shade, feels like getting showered by the milky light of the moon.

You do not feel it upon you, yet somehow ,you do.

Quite weird, right?

I'm in absolute awe whenever I look up at the sky. It feels as though I’m admiring a painting so beautifully painted, that it couldn’t be possible by human hands.

Something so beautiful that I ache not being able to capture it exactly the way my eyes see it.

It is like witnessing something impossibly vast, yet so deeply captivating. And the more I look, the more I am pained that I will never be able to witness all its beauty.

How does one feel so close, yet so impossibly far away?

They feel like deeply loving something you can never have.

melancholic, right?

I still cannot name the exact feeling of having them above me. Showered, as I stand underneath their brownish shade.

There's still more within them that refuses to be understood. Therefore, I am left lacking in explaining to you this exact feeling.

Unless you have felt this way before, perhaps none of this will make sense.

This feeling is strangely possessive. It refuses to give me a clear meaning or explain the depth of my fascination with those dark brown clouds. As if they are whispering:

Let this feeling remain between you and me.

Only between you and me.

No one else needs to understand the secret language, nor the connection we share.

Still, I want to give this connection a name.

I want to establish its existence through words.

Clouds feel packed withsorrow, yet carry a touch of artistry within.

They hold the depth of something that cannot be translated into words. A burden they carry because they refuse to share.

They do not allow me to name their grief, as if it is nonexistent.

Yet, I see the cracks between them, like a bottle that breaks because it can no longer contain what it holds. Their grief spills through those fractures.

The crack lets the light through.

And somehow, I can even hear them.

It's the sound of resistance. the sound of their struggle to keep their secrets from slipping through. Like desperately longing for a shoulder to lean on but refusing to ask for comfort. Perhaps, that’s exactly why they eventually shed tears.

Sometimes lightly.

Sometimes violently.

And sometimes, with howling that carries the echo of trapped voices within.

And in the end,

All I can do is attempt to pen down the feeling, even when it resists being seen, read, or heard by anyone.

Maybe you will understand the connection I try to portray.

Maybe you never will.

Maybe you will begin to look at them through a different lens.

Maybe you will become their companion in solitude.

Or maybe they will become yours too!

Because in the end, clouds are beautiful creatures who probably long to be understood.