Riding the Dragon
Every night I ride the skies on my dragon. I soar in the wind, flash through the layers of cloud, leap across great distances in a heartbeat. I am a friend and rival to the great airliners that cruise the heavens, a consort of stars and dancer under the moonlight.
My days are simple – monochrome tedium on yesterday’s sofa, feeling superior to the human wreckage on the TV only by dint of not living out my greyscale existence in front of a baying crowd. They married their sister’s boyfriend’s evil twin, but still love him, and I can hardly raise a smile of amusement of frown of contempt, merely a flat ennui that sustains me between advert breaks. Food comes in a packet. Drink comes in a can.
But my nights, oh my nights. As the sun sets the colour bleeds into the world, and the great coils unfurl outside the window, eclipsing the sodium yellow of the city. And I can stand on his back, holding tight at the knees and soar. The world expands below me, ablaze with light and sound carried on the winds. The skies are a candelabra of distant explosions, the horizon a dark line of infinite mystery.
And they tell me it is just a dream, and I should live for the daytime. But why should I, which the night, and my Dragon, is so much more real.