I start my day by gazing off into the far horizon, my keen, multicoloured eyes tracing the outline of where the sky and the land kiss for any signs of unrest amongst the beds of clouds that spread out below me. I look for this unrest, for it is in this strife that I paint my most stark murals on my canvas of the sky. Sun, yawning beyond the craggy mountain tops, slowly climbing them and readying himself for a huge leap into the sky, winks at me sleepily as I stare about. Sky, above me, is a strange gradient of cement grey and baby-like lavender.
I rise from my soft bed of clouds, kicking them slightly into disarray, and observe. From the harsh yet innocent brushes of Wind on my bare skin (he is harsh and cold, but he is a busy man in love, I think) and the evident, raucous flashes of Lightning and her younger twin Thunder in the distance, I can tell that there is a heavy storm at work. Already I see the misty hems of Rain's dress to the west. Wind is carrying her diligently on his back, and soon she will arrive.
I brush my hands over the cottony, lavender-hued clouds to smooth over where I've laid for the night, and then I yawn, watching the streams of orange and pink escape into the air from my lips. Tinges of blue are apparent on the tips of my fingers as I finish fixing my bed. I recline relaxedly, watching the storm draw closer as my bed of clouds carry me closer to the sun, and away from the storm.
Every storm is a battle between Land, Water, Lightning and Thunder. It's a stunning sight to behold- at times it is nothing but a light streak of disarray, at others it is a roaring tempest of anger and fierce competition. And always, it is grey; I am shut out of their conflicts. To them, I am a child, and an incarnate of vibrance and life that they do not want involved in their moments of ugly battle.
So I watch helplessly, distractedly throwing streams of orange and red to the sky above the inky, angry clouds and all the conflict. No one can see them, and no one even bothers to look up. Rain is too busy beating tiny and myriad bruises into Land's skin, and Lightning and Thunder are roaring and flashing screaming white into the falling drops of the downpour.
But when they are finished, when they coolly draw away from each other and return to their own personal affairs, I will come back and comfort the beaten, cold body of Land, bringing with me my small sack of Colours. Where Land is a dull grey and brown, I will bestow humble, comforting shades of blue and red. Where the depressed Sky bows her head, I will throw out to her pigments of blue and hope that her eyes sparkle again.
And where Sky and Land meet, I will throw out every single dust of colour I know and make a rainbow.