Twenty minutes. That’s all you’ll allow yourself. Twenty minutes, and, if your math is correct—which it almost never is—the sun will still be five feet below you. Seventeen feet up. Twenty minutes down. Soon no one will have to worry about you. No one will have to take care of you. You want to be down before the light is gone. You don’t want to remember leaving in dark. Not that you’re planning on dying; you aren’t planning on doing that for hundreds of thousands of years. But it is hard to be immortal sometimes. Especially when everyone around you isn’t.
These metaphors are too literal and the oak to your left stretches and forces you over to maintain the warmth of the sun. The roof breathes through its spiracles. You stare into the cloud orchard, knowing you’ll go blind eventually. You just wanted to see the faces. You’re glad they’re happy. A shadow touches your foot. You’re supposed to get down now. You don’t. The temptation of touching the sky is too much, so you scoot up a little. Twenty minutes. Your math was wrong. Freedom. Freedom of not understanding standardized. People like that could never see like you anyways. You feel bad for being so self centered. Your old friends in the sun are dancing, smiling at you. Go run with them. You remember running, but not like you are now. Dark moon, silver, mist curling up in gentle tendrils almost as soft as the dirt passing your feet, the stars falling in clattering waves called thunder, and laughing. You were laughing. Why? You thought the weather called for something other than more rain.
The sun is painting the horizon bloody and the moon is caressing it lavender and the trees are just silhouettes now. You need to get down. You touch the last inch of golden silk and slip to the ground, ignoring the cuts that suddenly cover your hands from gripping the rough edge. You’re a different person when the sun goes down, and I suppose that isn’t a bad thing.