It’s helium all the way up.
Above the rain, it’s always blue.
Yet, at some point, even the birds stop chirping; the bees stop buzzing; the wind stops breathing. I start laughing. I’m freefalling up the stairs.
So are my dreams.
The nightmares blanket the clouds: I might fall.
Ecstasy is a prison. Minimalism is seductive, but there’s nothing up here. I think and think and think and think.
If it’s up, are you still falling? The balloon: the bubble bursts, spurting helium into the invisible night sky.
An infinite sheet of blackness; daylight killed the stars and suffocated the void. Sun splotches everywhere: its crystals make the blue a little less sad.
Is falling up better than falling back down? This is an electronic paradise. This is an ocean of nothing but reflection: space to think. But I can’t think.
Maybe it’s too much helium. Floating ice cream is surreal.
Falling is falling. It doesn’t matter what direction; you’re going down.