Weightless.

I have so much better words to write about in the seat of a moving car, than when I am staring at a paper or a screen. How diminishing my inspiration to be looking back at their impatient eyes.

There is just something very eloquent about the passing drivers, the rolling clouds, and the tress that run away too quickly.

(Here's an attempt at recreating said essay from this morning's drive) (TBE if I remember more)

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Sometimes I hate it so much just simply being around you.

How you make me feel so small beneath your gaze, as you look down upon me. How short I become, how shallow my waters: from the surface where it ripples you see through me to the core of my sandy dunes, and polluted sea bed.

You are the deepest trench of the deepest ocean: how petty it is that the smallest of you that crashes to the shore becomes only almost of what I fully am.

I hate being around you.

You, with the world you boast on your shoulders, the past you gloat on your smile, and the future you praise in your eyes - how wonderful, as compared to I.

What about me?

Me, I am nothing.

Only a fickle breath to breeze that wipes off trees, and rooftops; I am merely a whisper whose words forever remain unspoken; I am so very little to you. 

When you tip the scale with the weight of your poise and your glisten, on the other end, I dangle desperately, fumbling my fingers over its creaking edge.

I am as light as a feather. I am bustled away by the wind that blows, landing only softly on the shoulders of strangers, only to be shrugged away: to dance again in the whistles I am unable to battle.

All this, while you - darling, you are everything: the galaxy and the universe. And if not the purples and blues of the atmosphere, then you are at least the sun: how you orbit the planets, how you gravitate the Earth, and how you may offer light to even the nighttime by lending yourself to the moon.

You - you are a proud lion, with glorious mane, and golden body - your roar quakes my gravity.

How can I ever be anything compared to you?

This feather, whom you may pick and prod at, and peel away my furry bits, to leave me bare and naked like a fish bone: seamless, and almost blinded - you see me only to pry me away from your blistered throat, and toss me to the floor, to clatter to absolutely no noise at all.

How small I am.

If I were to get lost in space, there would be no end. Or no beginning either. Only empty wandering amid the air I cannot even breath in; levitating in the world you have created around me.

The stars may be so far, and seem so small: but no matter how close I may ever get, I always lie a little further. Because there is no greater distance, than the silence we have, between you and I.