I opened my door to an ethereal, yet familiar, world this morning. I paused in the doorway, suspended in motion, as my eyes attempted to make sense of what I was stepping into. I felt like Dorothy, opening the door of her house, expecting to see what she had always seen, but instead revealing some other world. Only, in this case, it opened to a black and white world. Taking an embarrassingly long amount of time, I finally realized I was looking at fog. I couldn’t even see across the street, and all the lamps and porch lights glowed like little planets floating in front of me. As soon as I was able to discern what I was seeing, at comforting little thrill went through me. I love fog. It’s strange, since I am so extremely claustrophobic, but I love the sensation of be wrapped up in something all encompassing and protective.
As I drove, I realized that this fog was more intense that what I typically experience. It was if all the clouds above Denver had grown tired and decided to come rest upon the earth for awhile. The further I drove, the thicker the clouds became. More than once, I was surprised at where I was, shocked I had driven so far, not able to recognize the places around until they were upon me. I couldn’t see what was to the left or right, I was alone in my hazy, twilight world. The other vehicles traveling the opposite way towards me, seemed like stars zooming down out of the darkness, all following each other in a beautiful streamlined dance.
In the vapor, familiar things and places took on a new appearance, some looking more beautiful and special than normal, others looking nearly unrecognizable.
Of course, being the passenger in this life that I am, I couldn’t help but relate the drive to my own journey as of late. I have been traveling in this world that I have known for so long, this world that has become so familiar and known to me. However, for last half-year, fog has descended around me. At times, beautiful in its melancholy simplicity; other times terrifying as the cliffs around me hide themselves from view. Things I used to know and hold fast to disguise themselves as something else, or maybe are finally revealing their true nature. Other things that seem like a refuge in the mist are discovered to be anything but, sometimes altogether too late.
The fog continues to change and shift around me, constantly forcing me to readjust in order to simply function or to continue to take the next step. The fog has seemed to creep inside, causing parts of myself to be disguised as something they are not, and at times causing me to run into the truth of myself without warning, smashing into a mirror I didn’t see in my way. The thing about fog, as in my drive. . . a person is surrounded by fellow travelers, each making their way through the haze. However, as in the nature of fog, each traveler travels alone—at times bumping into another voyager but then reeling off into the isolation of the blur. The longer I continue, it seems like the entire journey is in a fog, only we don’t realize it until the times that the fog becomes extraordinarily substantial. I had a hand to hold through the fog, until it saw beautiful lights shinning off in the mist. The hand pulled away to pursue them, leaving an indentation in the haze by my side that still trails beside me. Whether the lights proved to be as beautiful as they appeared or if the haze proved too thick to find the way back, I pretend not to know. I feel the void of the haze beside me and attempt to make sense of the haze in front of me (and at times behind). Maybe, I will stumble on a crevasse in the midst that will offer shelter and clarity for a time, maybe a beacon that allows lucidity for others on the same path. Or, maybe the fog will simply continue to form shapes and absences around me.
Black Coffee Tables
1 year ago