| Fog |
[Dec. 22nd, 2005|09:41 pm]
rejectomorph
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I thought about wandering off into the fog. The clouds clamped themselves down onto the ground and didn't go away all afternoon. I could see the vague forms of trees over toward the canyon, a slightly darker gray, the shade of difference between exhaled breath and the air around it on a dim, cold day. I though how nice it would be to walk into that fog and vanish, becoming like those deer glimpsed in the forest who are never there when you look again, so you think that maybe you imagined them. If I wandered into that fog, maybe I would become invisible to myself, and not have to listen to my thoughts, all of them having been replaced by immediate and complete awareness of the gray atmosphere in which all things disappear. In a fog there is no direction, no distance, no goal, but only soothing presence and pale light. All water gets to be fog, at one time or another, and not pressed into an ocean or rushed through a river or stagnant in a swamp. I find that comforting. Fog is water liberated. |
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