(I wrote this last fall.)
Clouds are funny things.
On happy days, clouds pair perfectly with a mug of spiced chai and a good book. Their dense fluff drapes gently over your shoulders much like the soft, tattered afghan your grandmother crocheted for you so many years ago. They envelop both you and the story into which you are slipping. You pull the clouds, and your blanket, closer around you as you settle comfortably, contentedly into the words and the mist.
But on sad days, you feel the wet, dense grayness of clouds bearing down heavily on your soul. It's hard to draw a deep breath against their weight, let alone get out of bed. Draw the covers over your head instead, shielding yourself from the damp melancholy. The clouds shower you with your cold, wet insecurities and fears. You burrow deeper beneath the quilt to escape the drenching downpour of self doubt. Perhaps you, and the sun, will try again tomorrow.
And some days, clouds have no meaning at all. They simply exist. Some days you feel the same way.
But the best days - the very best of days - are the days on which the clouds brilliantly showcase the splendor of the world. They team together with the sun, painting declarations of joy with sunset colors in the sky. The evening sun bathes the horizon with rich, thick light, but it is the clouds that capture it, soften it, make it art. The clouds reveal the beauty.
Maybe clouds aren't funny at all. Maybe people are.
Emotions, feelings.
As unpredictable as the weather.