The sky is so full.
Especially in the middle of nowhere. You look up and all you see is a thin membrane of blue-black packed with brilliant pinpricks of varying colour size, and brightness. Constellation, over constellation, over constellation, overlapping, mixing, circling each other in a breath-taking spectacle of space.
If you find a good, wide field, with long swaying grass, and lay down right in the middle, sometime at night, you can almost feel your soul slowly tugging to get up there and join them in the everlasting dance. Feel your body slowly growing, shifting, changing, decaying, and fading into the soft warm earth at your back. Feel something in you, something asleep, something that has slept for much too long, shift and wake and murmur to you that there, up there, that’s where you belong, that’s where you need to be, to go. Feel yourself become so light and frail that the gentle breeze playing with the blades of grass around and above you could easily pick you up and fly you away. Fly you home.
You could lay there for hours, just feeling, not thinking, until a tiny corner of the paper-thin sky turns from indigo to deep, deep purple, and that purple spreads and lightens the sky. If you sit up and look at the corner where the purple originated, after a few minutes, you can see a tiny sliver of glowing, bright, blood red, hiding just behind the horizon, as if the sun wants to come out, but it’s too shy. You coax it out and the sky lights up on fire, and blushes pink, and the small wisps of cloud twirl and float in joy at seeing the sun show it’s beauty. Their joy is so contagious that you feel a strange, bubbly feeling creep up your throat, and a laugh escapes you, and that little something sleeping in you wakes up and begs to dance with the clouds, and the sky, and the sun, and the stars, that are invisible in the light of day, but still there. So you stand, and you dance, and you laugh, and you revel in the simple joy of a sunrise in the middle of nowhere, and you realize that the sky is so full.