There was a time where I didn't hear the crunching under my feet, notice the breeze frosting my lips, the trees blanketing the sun as the moon steps in to take over for the late shift.
There were multiple times, almost every day for me as a child, where I would see the sun floating downward to the round rim of the world. I only saw that because I saw it, and I viewed how God took the baby blue skies, and swayed his brush full of orange paint across the bottom, where you can see the trees lining up with the sun and everything made sense –
at least for a couple hours, maybe just one. Afterward, He left His canvas out to dry. That was His worst mistake, I think. See, we are the people, and we have ways to cause beautiful accidents, but we always resort to creating purposeful destruction. We were, no, we are the little toddlers who get furious when we’re told “no.”
We're the wild animals locked in cages ; bars made of luxuries, yet we still always complain. We are the needy. We will destroy any-and every-thing at all cost. So, how do we fit into this story, you may ask? Well, we took hold of that paint brush, smeared and smothered it in black. We knew that the lovely sunset was close to dimming away so the sky could turn dark and the night could commence. So we did what we thought we had to do. We ran the brush over the bright, distracting colors until the luminous beauty of the day turned to a chilling, dark night – no star in sight.
I was never fond of the dark skies, unless they had stars cascaded across them. Then, I would look up and find the moon, see how many friends he had around him and the devious enemies that he had many feet away, but what I thought were feet, were actually miles – millions and millions of miles. The moon never met any of the stars. He was alone. His only love, the Sun, would appear, and when she did, he hid himself away on the other side of the world – he thought he wasn’t good enough for an amazing beauty that lit up, no, not the whole room, but the whole world.
We made a terrible mistake. His strokes to our vigorous stabs couldn’t come close to a comparison. They say you’re supposed to add only light coats of paint. Well, we might not have. We also might have torn through the beautiful night sky that we made, and black paint might have smudged through the first page and ended up bleeding into the next, and then the next, so on and so forth.
Somehow, though, every night we make the redundant mistake, He always fixed it. He always will.
Now I can hear the crunching below my feet during fall, I can feel my lips coated with chilling winds, I can see the world clearly now.