A Moment in Time

I am the fog.

When I come, I lay me down– just one small particle of the universe next to another small particle of the universe, and on and on– until I blanket the world about me in a soft milky haze; all that exists is this moment in time, here, and now. I am the everything and the nothing; I am all that was, all that is, and all that ever will be. I am the emptiness that is possibility. I am the reminder to use what you have available to you, as I give you limited trees, dark and fading against the endlessness that is me, and a steady ground with which you may lay your weary head. I am what gives the falling leaf that spirals down towards you significance as you look out into the vastness that is me. I am what takes your big world, and carefully molds it into a much smaller, much more manageable world. I am what allows you to hold your breath while you breathe; to pause life, as life surges on about you. I watch you—and you, watch me.

Time– well over a year and a half– has been gifted to you in the form of twenty thousand dollars, and as your scale tips and your center slips, the suffering within begins. This is the moment that you have been waiting for, to discover which reality this will be, which truth this brush stroke will reveal—and now that it is here, you feel the power of it pull you towards every possibility; it is daunting. It is your turn to live up to expectations, both yours and others, and to show your purpose in life. Your want for success in these is so heavy it leaves doubt; your doubt is so strong, you lay here, immobile. A new page has been turned, and in its wake was left a question: Can you make a difference to the world?

You look with eyes so young and unaware—like a caterpillar fresh hatched from its egg that squints at the bright light, you were used to the subtle warm hues that pulsed against a dark and comforting background, and the stillness that came with it. This light, this new sense of vision is so different from what had cloaked you before, that it causes pain. This change of circumstances in your life has agitated the waters at your feet, made real the impermanence that is ever evident, and hung purpose in the air above you like a beacon. Destiny is in your own hands; you get to decide your own path from here.

You pause.

The fear of growing glues you down where you are, holding you still as a silky ribbon begins to lace itself about you, silently wrapping you in pensive dreams and sorrows. You are still. What is success? What is of true import? You feel your intention guiding the tiny braid of white light around and around, feel it slip through your fingers and hug at your legs, and are grateful for it. You thank it for its existence, and allow for breath to come and go as stillness settles in. In the present moment, you feel the earth breathe alongside you, feel the compassion that the universe holds for you, and you for it. It is not easy to hold the balance of all the forces both outside and within. Again, you breathe, and with the close of your eyes, your cocoon is sealed. This is an ending; it is a beginning.

Little by little, bit by bit, the walls inside begin to shift and slide, and with eyes still closed, the picture becomes clearer. It feels good to be good; it feels good to do good. Precision of the language of the soul is paramount, and not a word goes wasted, not a creature of the world goes unnoticed. With this money of man, you have been given the gift of metamorphosis, and with its presence, you see all that for what it is—you. Every answer to every question can be found within yourself. From you, your light may shine, and ignite the way for others to catch flame. It is time for you to wake up. To break through the glass so that you might stretch your tender wings. They can do great things, if only you can believe in them. They can do magical things—things, like inspire.

Your head still lay upon the thick weave of your blanket, and the softness of you in this moment is dreamlike. In your gaze, I see myself, wispy and everchanging. I see potential. I see that there are things that only you can see; and if you make true your fictions, what a gift that must be—because you did it. You found yourself, and in doing so, found all the answers you had been seeking. You rise then, grabbing your little black book whose blank pages are soft as a whisper, damp from the air that is me, and you glide ink across its surface. Loops and swirls scroll back and forth, and a falling leaf mimics its dance as it lands at your side, and looks up to watch you write.

Something drifts by; it is just the fog.