Witness
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The clouds move slow, and stick and touch. I look up at their cotton strewn across the sky.
Downtrodden, I know.
The movement that rips them apart is at work in me, too.
What could be moving them, spreading them apart? Changing them only when you look closely enough.
Who is looking up at me to witness my change? Who is taking their time to watch me slowly, meticulously rip apart? Who is watching me without pre-deciding who or what I should become?
Who is just there to witness? Me.