Cloud of Dreams

When I was little, clouds were large feather beds of fluff and softness that you could lay and sleep on. Clouds were a kingdom of spireling, swirling towers of white. Only to be reached in dreams. But reality is cruel and clouds are not the beautiful pillows that I once thought they were. They are not something to be touched, you reach for them but feel nothing. You could go to lay down hoping to be engulfed in the comfort of the clouds but you would fall, fall through, getting engulfed not in soft, warm comfort but freezing water. That water soaks through more than clothing, it soaks through your soul, chilling you to the bone. You would hit the cold, hard reality that is the ground. Clouds are only the stuff of dreams if you do not look too closely, they are only pretty at a glance, the inside being something worse than you ever expected.