It’s an infinitely blue ceiling with rich veins of wispy cream. On cold, clear days, it seems so brittle that it might break with a glance. Don’t let the airplanes flying to foreign lands fool you—the trails of the aircraft carve deep white canyons into the canvas, but beyond it is utter black. The sky is glorious.

Chunks of cumulonimbus and streaks of cirrus sink into their windswept rhythm, gazing at rocky beaches and a latticework of city streets as they drift across the landscape. As they pass, they offer a chance to become like them: unadorned, drifting, observing. The clouds are the perspective you need. They offer blinding clarity, because every problem disappears in the macro.

I dream of blue and white. In the clouds, my problems are far away, folded into the vastness. Taking the 40,000 foot view is a refresh of perspective. Dream of blue and white not to escape, but to carry that vastness, that unending glimmer of totality, with you when you return to your mind and body. Though your problems remain unchanged, they look smaller. They have not shrunk. You have expanded.