Bottled Clouds

“You can't milk the clouds.”
“I'm not sure I follow.”
“They rain when they're good and ready.”
“Do you not think I'm ready?”
“I don't see any tears.”

As if those are the marker, I think, as I sit in front of the last person I should have embarked on this discussion with. But warped decisions are what come of immense pressure.

It is after this that the clouds only serve to tease me. To remind me that I am incapable. And I can't escape them. On particularly grey days, I find it hard to bear their weight. Even when the sky is blue, it is my fate to ruminate on the inevitability of their gathering. When they do, and it eventually does rain, I cannot but recall my inability to let go in that way.

“You're bottling it up. You shouldn't do that.”
“I can't help it.”
“What do you think would happen to the clouds if they didn't release all that pent up moisture? It has to go somewhere.”

Someone else now. Someone better. But I still can't do what is needed.

It is true that the caps on my particular bottles are red from the effort to contain. Red with a fury I'm now too exhausted to feel. With an ire that is not of my own making, but which I have sustained to breaking point.

But I can't seem to open them. To release the contents. I have thought about shaking them so hard that they'll just explode. Maybe then I'll be free, I think. But what of the destruction?

Bottled Clouds

As it stands, they sit. Tightly closed, their noxious interiors fit to make them burst but for their impenetrability as a whole. The clouds dangle above them. They tell me that I know what needs to happen. What I need to do.

Unscrew the caps.

Let them pour.