Whispers in the Dark: Bedtime Stories for Grown-Ups

That one was a dragon. Definitely a dragon. You could see the long, slow curve of its spine… a plume of smoke for a nostril. It was majestic, for a moment. A great, silent beast swimming through an ocean of pale blue. It hung there, complete. Perfect. But the wind has no patience for statues. It began to fray the edges, pulling and teasing. It tugged at the tail until the neat curl was just a wisp. The proud head softened… the jawline dissolved… the whole magnificent creature melted, until the dragon was just the memory of a dragon.

Gone. In its place, a ship. A tall galleon, its sails fat with a wind I couldn't feel. I watched it glide toward an island that looked like a sleeping cat. I found myself whispering… “Look… right there”… to the quiet air in the room. Trying to hold the image in place with my attention. But you can’t. It’s like trying to cup water in your hands. The moment you think you have it, it’s already slipping away. The galleon’s sails tore, shredded, and became a flock of birds. The island stretched and became a long, bony finger pointing at nothing.

Another shape… another name… another ghost. And then… I just stopped. I stopped trying to name them. I stopped searching for things I recognized. My mind went quiet. I just watched. I watched the movement itself. The slow, unhurried dissolving of one thing into absolutely nothing… and then, just as slowly, into something else entirely. It wasn’t a show of shapes. It was a lesson in letting go. And that’s when I really saw it. Not the clouds, but the space. The impossible, endless blue behind them.

The clouds weren’t things at all. They were just moments. Visible sighs. Markers of the wind’s invisible journey. I had been watching a parade, trying to name every float as it passed. But it wasn’t a parade. It was a river. And I wasn’t standing on the bank, watching it go by. I was in it. Just another quiet current, feeling the others flow past. The sun dipped lower, catching the edges in gold, then fire, then a soft, bruised purple. The last light of the day. The sky doesn’t hold onto anything.

And for a little while, neither did I.