A handful of teardrops, slipping from the sky above. The soft lullaby of pitter patters could rock you to sleep. Drip drop, drip drop. The soft sadness rolls down the window pane, leaving streaks in the memories past.
Louder now, the drizzle has turned into a rustle of papers, a hall full of kids. Please don't look; the clouds are weaving grey through their wisps. They are apathetic, with no sun to brighten their day. All they need is a little light, a little attention, but everybody is too focused on what they, the clouds, create.
But wait! There you are, sitting in your chair, in your desk, gazing out the window. The music that the cloud hums lulls you to sleep, but she is the last thing you see, that beautiful, morphing, lonely cloud is the last thing you think about.
And she is what you dream about.

Wake up! You see her, no longer grey. The sun has finally tossed some sparkles her way, and her pink fringes and white gown are replacing the dreary coat of gloom.
But is she not the same cloud as before? Hiding behind her majestic robe, is she not the same mass of water particles? Yes. She is. And she could never be totally unscathed, never be pure enough again.

You follow her throughout the day, peeking through the windows, hoping to always see her. In your awe, you miss that she follows you as well, glowing under your love. But unlike you, she has no legs to move her back, or keep her in place. Her life is being lived for her. the wind sweeps her away at any moment, the sun demands her to always be glorious and the only time she is her own is when she again produces that music, that soft flowing melody, when she is her own color, her own shade. Her mix of day and night.

But she was not her own now. She must follow, her hand tucked under the winds.

She began to cry. This storm of hers is like no other before. It is a storm in her heart.
One tear leads to another, and again she is performing her own symphony, and again people listening to her.
Let us get this straight; this cloud loves attention, but not for what she makes but instead for who she is.
Like a camera flash, she screamed and kicked. She had never had a tantrum like this.
She found a new high from this utter low. Every time she howled, everybody glared up to the broken sky. The looks on their faces were ones she had never seen before. Faces of worry, surprise, uncomfort- upset streaked their faces. They were finally giving her the attention, not her tap dancing music.
The new routine was just what she needed.
Yet, every time she did it, it hurt her a little bit more. The scream she etched into people’s heart was more than she could understand. Every time she kicked and rumbled and wailed, her victory was deeply scarred by the constant murmuring of people’s thoughts.

Now, look at her.
She is there, sitting, perplexed.
Should she go on day-by-day basking in the sunlight, but never quite finding her self?
Should she dry up, dissolve into herself, never crying, never shining, always being a numb pile of emotion?
Or should she choose life, no matter how windy, snowy, warm, shiny or cold it may be?