At first my sculpting was abrupt and choppy. Forms took the general shape that I intended: a hill here, a pillar there. These forms filled their purposes. They were beautiful in that they were mine, but they were rough. Well, as rough as anything made of cloud can be.
But I learned to be precise. Every day that my beanstalk appeared I climbed to the freedom it delivered. The more time I spent in the clouds, the harder it became to return to earth again. Mother never scolded me for disappearing -- I think she was too busy with my brothers and sisters to even notice I was gone. But each time I returned I felt heavy and wooden, as of the ground itself was weighing me down and the lightness of the clouds dissolved every atom of pain and bondage. And so I continued to climb and I continued to sculpt. When I became hungry I sculpted a sandwich or a chicken leg or a tomato out of the clouds and it became what I desired. A luminescent strawberry patch or a brilliant, snowy grapevine would come into being and fill my hunger. My world sustained me, body and soul.
In time my fingers grew accustomed to the molding of the clouds. Instead of a tree that looked simply like a ball on a stick, I was creating intricate, interlacing branches that sprouted glorious leaves of all shapes and sizes. I created orchards that bore fruits of my imagination. Sweet and succulent berries grew next to tart or tangy pods that oozed when bitten. Each shape had a unique flavor. Occasionally I would create something with a flavor I didn't fancy upon trying, but with a little reshaping -- the narrowing of the end or flattening of sides, the addition of dimples or spines -- the flavor would morph and I would continue changing it until it met my approval.
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