Fog makes me happy

It was foggy this morning and that makes me so happy!  Even happier than rain!

I love the way fog disappears reality behind a cloud of silver possibility.  I like to see the idea of a tree I thought I knew yesterday, half formed, waiting for a memory, or chance, or some of the free floating oddities in my mind to turn it into something else.  I like moving through space in a fortress of solitude feeling that the world outside might be populated with a million ant men, or an army of zombies, or six foot flowers, or no one but me.  I like the malleability of fog.  Being something of a narcissist, I like the opportunity to imagine my own reality in the unformed world.

I like fog when the sun, instead of merely pouring heat down from the sky, coyly and lazily wends its way through layers of gauze, mystic and relaxed, vaguely friendly but not too intimate.  I love how the fog slowly burns away leaving columns of solid light standing in the air like friendly ghosts walking the fields until the sun reduces them to thin clouds hovering on the ground, waiting for the final sunbeam to collapse them into nothing but light, a pleasant enough fate, I suppose.

I love the world after the fog, when the sun has finally banished the last hazy wisps and rainbow edges of hovering liquid and the world is so shiny my eyes hurt and the sky is so blue it looks like someone washed it.  And I like the feeling that the real world, which yesterday seemed like an imposition, is just one of the choices, someone’s possibility projected into the fog.