They call it space because that's what it is and there's a lot of it.

There's so much going on in that sky up there. Moons and shadows and fire and light and blue upon blue and big, empty space. What do the stars look like from up there, God? They're already pretty amazing from the dirt and weeds I've planted my feet in.
And closer! The clouds take shape into runways and embankments and threads and puzzles and bunnies! I almost saw an eagle tear a hole in the sky and leave the fragile air-filled scraps all over the floor and the massive blue-gray of storm clouds made my warm, smothered skin itch for rain. It's not that I'm blind, I just don't need to see things as they really are.
And if I blew on a dandelion in the dark, it's only for the poetic thoughts or maybe it's for a wish or a prayer or maybe out of habit or because I like it.
Looking at the sky was like praying with pictures. It's like how I see someone who makes amazing things and does amazing stuff and I want to know them so I guess it's a good thing to look at everything more often.
My weak cameras can't see what my eyes can, especially if their batteries keep dying. I don't know how to paint what I catch a glimpse of so the only picture I can hold is the one in my mind, and if I don't hold on to it I might forget for good, and then where would I be? I would be a girl who remembers one less sky. One dark sky with dark pink brush strokes across it, a painting of nothing in particular but one marvels at the size of the tools that must have been used to make it.
When I spin with the sky, my eyes can't keep up and the aching space between every point of light I see just wants to be filled but if I tried it would be like a single cell of my body trying to paint me purple and besides that I just fall down.
A warm welcome is a desirable, smiling scene, but I would almost rather stay out here, alone in the chill and damp air with my thoughts because there is not really anyone I want to be with in a warm yellow room right now. The dark blue everything is open and free and I'm right here on the edge of it. Something keeps me from running right into it and never coming back but it's not restraining me because I'm fine with staying right here. Call it common sense or contentment but there's no reason to leave where I am right now. No reason except adventure but adventure is something I have when I close my eyes or press a pen to paper or more realistically my fingers to the keys of some computer.
I want to draw all sorts of things but at the same time I feel that I can wait because I've drawn a lot today and all sorts of things are the ones you draw over a lifetime, not right now. Right now you draw what you like even if you drew it yesterday or a year ago but eventually you'll have a lifetime of drawings and they'll be the all sorts of things you wanted back when you were sixteen going on seventeen and I know that I'm naive
Fellows I meet may tell me I'm sweet and willingly I believe

I am sixteen going on seventeen, innocent as a rose
Bachelor dandies, drinkers of brandies
What do I know of those?

Sorry, did I start singing? Where was I? Nowhere. That's alright. Sometimes I just write where I was and it becomes where I am and it gets prettier.

God, thanks for letting me be a writer and an artist and an Aki and a Claire.