Words of a Cloud-Dweller

There are two kinds of beings on this earth. Ones who reject reality, and those who are absorbed by it. Each being are as different as ground and sky, fire and ice, sun and rain. And then there is I. What I am, I am not too certain. My presence is not welcome by the realists nor the optimists. It's as if I am allusive fog, abrasive mist, a mindless cloud-dweller, who's mind belongs no where else but amongst the isolation in the heavens. 

The realists create safety, the illusion that danger does not exist. The optimist create paintings and books, stories and visions that peace is something meant for bound parchment upon shelves, or canvases upon walls. What have I create? What have I done? I've been up in the air, a mindless being! And yet, I've create stories that flow with sound, I've create sculptures of men with spears, I have captured pictures in boxes and presented them to you. Under another name that the world accepts. 

I guess it is that very same person, in their brainless ways, that have produced courage in this world. Cunningness and pride-both reality and fantasy combined to create dreams. And it is the act of said cloud-dwellers, valiant and passionate, that turn dreams into reality. And it is that which makes me enlightened to be a mindless Cloud-Dweller.