'skies like these make me want to live' more

There is a globe in you.
Yesterday I was driving home with my mum, and we drive a little road down where we get to see a line of dark, brush trees home and beyond that, a train that I don't know goes where and beyond that, the sun falling. Can you fall slowly? Can you, try to defy the way gravity sinks into your kneecaps, see the sky for a little while longer, believe in you the way you should? I'm not saying this as a question. I'm saying this how your mother tells you to help her with the grocery bags, or how your dad tells you to move aside. Can you help me carry this? Can you go somewhere else? Can you believe in yourself? A few months ago, only in February, I wrote about the magic leaking out my body. I could see it, a translucent yellow, sick, rotten, despair. How do you explain to yourself, make peace with yourself, about the visions you get during the day about, not just anyone this time, but you? How do you explain the day you realized you weren't magical. Yesterday, I was driving home with my mum, and we drive a little road down where we get to see a line of dark, brush trees home and beyond that, a train that I don't know goes where, and beyond that, the sun falling. As I made the bend, my eyes should've been on the road, but I told her, 'skies like these make me want to live' more, should I have said more? I didn't say more. She asked me what I meant, if I meant to say something else, something more. 'More. Skies like these make me want to live more'. I said more, I smiled, putting my right signal on. I lied.
'I hope that there are more important things that make you want to live'. How do I tell her? No. The sky is where it begins and where it ends. I will take the sky with me when I die. I will fold its pain into the creaks of my organs and stick it onto my bones like a child's painting onto the walls of a home. I will swing on its moon and fall asleep in its crooked arms and drive the constellations apart. I will tell the people, no, there is no hope. There is no astrology. There are no Pisces, so defiant, there is only you. Small, and ignorant, but so defiant. Why are you so defiant against a world that tells you there is love in it, but it is not made for you? Apparently, a dancer dies two deaths. One, when they stop dancing. I have a proposition. A human dies two deaths. One, when they stop taking pictures of the sky. Two, when they wake up one morning, any morning, look at their clocks, and it's saying 8:40, 8:40 am wake the fuck up, push off the blankets, say hello to their plants by their beds, open their blinds and drink water, brush their sorry teeth and paste lotion onto their dreary skins, wearing slippers that walk everywhere, everywhere because home is somewhere and nowhere they're still walking to, and they're walking to the pantry, the living room, the laundry, sitting on one of the dining chairs, eating a croissant boiling some water, sitting on the chair again, that same chair they always sit at, and they eat, they eat the croissant that has Nutella spread on it, and they look outside, and they see the sky and think 'god it's so fucking blue' and they know, they realize, they realize as they take the last bite of the croissant as the crumbs pile on their pristine, white plate ringed blue that is made from Italy, that there's no magic in me. God, what an awful thought, and then they place their plate in the sink and drive to work.
Yesterday, I was driving home with my mum, and we drive a little road down where we get to see a line of dark, brush trees home and beyond that, a train that I don't know goes where, and beyond that, the sun rising.