My special relationship with the sky began two years ago. Some strangers had bought the land that lay in front of my house, a strip of seaweed-covered sand separating it from the sea, and I couldn't bear the thought of them building a huge monstrosity there. I agonized over this violation of my ownership, sought sympathy, but the answer came to me softly one day as I lay on my terrace gazing upwards---"...At least I still own the sky"

I owned the sky. It was as simple as that. It was as if I had taken the cluttered things in mind, switched a few places, and the answer clicked into place in a perfectly logical way. It was the brighter side, and I didn't just see it; I realized how true it was, unexpectedly.

A year later, I was going through a difficult time in school and found it hard to keep a stony expression off my face. I couldn't smile, I didn't want to, and I felt tired and misunderstood. As we drove home, I stared sourly at the horizon--- a tractor, a pile of garbage, and a couple of dark, ratty-looking trees at the end of a dusty road.

I don't know exactly when it happened, but I suddenly noticed its contrast with the sky, with its clean, clear, beautiful blueness, the way it sprang up from that tiny inch-long horizon and burst outwards, rolling over the top half of my view and spreading, soft, magnificent, never-ending. It was a thousand trillion times bigger than my problems, more beautiful, and more optimistic. It seemed to throw open my mind and let the air in. I grinned widely at it, startling some passers-by, and went home, my discovery glittering in my eyes.

I told one of my friends later- "Sometimes when we're looking only at a few depressing things at the end of the road, we forget to glance upwards and notice how much bigger the sky is." I don't think she understood what I meant, but I meant it literally. The sky became my source of comfort; I would force my self up to the terrace every time I wasn't able to work, or was lonely, or the world seemed like a huge ton of bricks on my head and my stone-expression returned.

Recently, I was up on the terrace one morning, hoping it would brighten the mood I had woken up in. I was so depressed that even the sea seemed smaller, somewhat shrunken and tame, the boats on it disappointingly close.

And then I remembered to glance upwards. The vastness of what I saw made me rear my head back, and its brightness made me squint. It reminds me of Wes Bentley's line in 'American Beauty'- "Sometimes there's so much beauty in the world...I just can't take it."---and what thought is more insightful than that?

The sky represents everything I want and love about life. I love its size, its simplicity, and its optimism. It comforts me because even when my illusions are shattered, it remains flawless, and I know there's more to dreaming than just flimsy visions. There are people who want to surf, deep-sea dive and trek, but I've always wanted to fly, to move far away above the things I know, and can touch, into its idealism. The sky puts all things in perspective, but most of all, it seems to me living proof of an idealistic vision, a place where endless opportunities and hope really exist, in a way I can see, feel, and almost touch them.

I love how it is effortlessly huger than anything...I want to stretch upwards till I can feel its softness closing over my fingers...I want to dip a finger in the softly blazing setting sun and taste its warmth...I want to change the world.