The Fog

Dances in the Fog.

The crude sight taker, the void maker that twinkles light into luminescent fakers. An honest perspective from mother nature and their utter indifference to our screams for order and decent control. It all exists and flourishes outside the fifty-yard view distance but if you ask a child naive enough, ‘the world is gone.’ Possibly in a panic, if it’s the silent type, there could be havoc beyond the intangible barrier. You breathe it on the way to work, not an ounce feels from the ninth set. So many mornings of blithering confusion to greet the internal mysticism that leaves the rapids baffling season to season. Could it be monsters camped within the cover for easy, intimate kills or the Earth is completely gone into the ether, and your front porch is the final corner pocket of the Milky Way? No blue in the moisture; is the sky a lie? Sparkling, spinning light in the dead air where the stars are stuck behind the ceiling. I think this is what I’m feeling.

It was taken initially without cause or motivational triggers, yet results might’ve overwhelmed in that moment. In wallowing in the complimentary black frame, the lines shined to fool the camera and I, and since my standard essence pours harsh reds and rigid blues for that plum crazy purple fairly not for everyone, the dull illation in the color selection no longer seemed as familiar as it does on a clear night. Overhand light throwers with its point gone moot and the nothingness could be called as attractive as Dollar Tree star gazing. The mentality in the ritual dog walk had been altered. It’s only worsened in the gray-face sunrise, but the love of it forever grows. Stillness into exaggerated fleeing cars moves the brain faculties into the possibilities of pure, unlimited futility. Dreams call it nightmare scenarios yet fail to spark the anxiety like a peer-led event doomed to go beautifully. Do I enjoy this state?

No stranger to isolative self-growth, my cubical is set up where day or night isn’t opening the blinds for the witness statement. If fogs lasted days, weeks, my roof desk would develop a coffee brewer to be polite to my diligent method. Then, I return to a human forum to attempt to match the relationship distances on the other side of sporadic texts. Everything exists in the nothingness; just look at the Earth. A blue marble covered in dirt with a bunch of germs just hanging out, and the weather is always divine.

Locked from the cliched vision of an overactive juttering on tar rivers, my imagination can make revisions on the plastered 8” X 11” sheets blanketed over the sky. A photographer I am not, people, self, landscapes—if it weren’t so guilt-affirming, I’d rock a bandana-balaclava in every security laced facility. However, rain and dense fog continue to prove that the immensity of elegance, grace knows no stereotypes. The essential view of Pavlovian hiding in broad daylight felt freed in every way in every filthy rediscovered fifty yards of familiar neighborhood coated in stunted light. When days, mornings feel as sturdy as the rattling thoughts doing a few thousand miles per hour, an unmatching warmth sells me back my cynicism for admiration’s sake in its truest environmental form. No narrative is unquenchable in the reawakening of a sunny day, providing a truth to lousy weather.

The truth is being lost within the forest-fog (with tools/supplies) rows my canoe up the river’s bends for the fun of it. Although, socially flailing on the shore, gasping for what others absorb with photosynthesis without a tanning bed, I erupt into a cataclysmic retreat weeks after an undoing I can’t unravel in notebooks of inner shadow work but must take responsibility for regardless. This gray matter swamping the conversations aimed at an unavailable woman or walls and wall-like humans for exterior progress was a reminder of reality. A stark recklessness of not knowing to dull the panic before the attack. (Still barely works, but…) The pieces from my youth make sense. The litter of solving and unsolving of uncontrollable assets from birth’s factory settings are part of the climate survivable since not avoidable. The Rally Cry turns the fog into a neutral obstacle no more problematic than the recognizable next step that forever appears untoward.