I am secretly learning how to fly.This mainly involves practising while I am dreaming, meaning the possibility of dying is greatly reduced (then again people say if you die in your dream, you die in waking life as well – see Matrix movies) - we all gotta start some where. So, flying in a dream once, I came across a storm cloud dressed in sheep’s clothing, I immediately saw through the disguise and zapped him with my pen. It rained purple. My wings got so wet I had to land and shelter under a banana leaf. When the rain had stopped, the sun came out and dried up the land. The water went but the purple remained. I saw choirs of Cheshire cats meowing in unison, their white fur stained, rebel chameleons casting ultra violet shadows, Violets venting pollen at the world for taking their individuality. Purple, a colour associated with the supernatural, so readily available, caused spontaneous small miracles to burst forth: wines were re-watered, vines pulsed with Evian. Leather chairs sprang to life and immediately ate its inhabitants, glass revoked its transparency, parrots developed their own language, snails out ran cheetahs, humming birds discovered opera – never will their wings beat sweetly again.

Flabbergasted at the destruction my careless penmanship had caused, I set about trying to rectify the situation, flying to cloud communions, asking if they had seen a lilac water congregation, a semi bluish fog, a pink mist, anything. They all declined to answer; news of my escapade had reached them. As I left their presence, and old cumulous took me aside and told me of death. The storm cloud having lost its colour, flew to the sun and died.

So everything purple that isn’t naturally purple is a remnant of that cloud- its only evidence of existence.Everything purple is meant to fly.

Yeah, I didn’t get the dream too.

Inua ~ Phaze