It’d be impossible to explain why exactly I love the world most when it’s hazy out, but I want to.
Last week was productive(ish) or productive enough; I’m considering reintroducing book reviews as a thing I do regularly. Things feel within reach–but far enough like at the back of a high cabinet that I must strain to reach. I generally like it that way.
But in the meantime, I feel restless. It’s kicking myself awake or not being able to turn my brain off long enough to make a dent in sleep debt. If it were warmer, I’d walk or run, but it’s not there yet for me.
The fog makes the world brand new. An alien landscape where lightposts are obscured, where everything reflects off the ground-level clouds. The world, for a moment, feels softer. I glide down towards the 106-140 intersection and rather than being worried about an accident, I’m comforted. The orange glow of streetlights becomes one blanket. The world looks warmer, and welcoming, and holy. To risk borrowing too much from Whitman, I’m aware in these moments of the way my atoms pass through the atoms around me, that even the negative spaces we usually see are actually mostly not negative at all. When the air is made solid enough that it looks like waves against guard rails, it’s easier to remember that everything slots against each other the way it was always meant to.
I get out of the car and my sneakers make the loudest sounds in the world. It’s ok. The neighborhood echoes back. I want to take a picture in case I ever live somewhere where it never gets foggy, but pictures never come out right anyway.
And standing there in the fog I’m finally able to make sense of something. It’s lost the moment I move, but it’s ok. I had it.