Cloud of Something

There has always been this odd feeling I get with fog. It happens all the time, and it never ceases to amaze me. You see, fog fascinates me. It's like being in the dark but not in the dark because the world is brighter within itself that there is fog present. And fog is just so odd. Essentially fog is a cloud. And it's odd how I look up at clouds and wonder how it will be to walk among them, they seems like there should be something solid to them. But they are not. They are gaseous things, and fog is a cloud, one that you can never catch. Have you ever noticed that when its night and you're driving down the road and there looks like there is thick patch of fog ahead but once you reach that point it no longer there, but you notice there is some more up ahead. But driving further only garners the same results, you are always chasing after fog.

The other night, as I was wondering around campus trying to figure out in which building we were going to have rehearsal I noticed how foggy it is. It is not a rare occurrence; it tends to be foggy here in Montevallo a lot. But there is a difference between it being foggy here and it being foggy somewhere else. I'm not sure what it is about it, maybe it's the red brick streets or the lights that glow between the fog in orbs of thickness, not breaking through but reflecting it. I'm not sure, as with a lot of my thoughts. I have them, yet I can't explain them. But Montevallo fog, it's strange, when I'm walking through it I feel like I'm being wrapped in some cool arms. And I can't help but think of the mystery of it all and how there could be anything in the fog. If I think of ghosts then I see them in the fog, dancing around in reflections and shadows, but mere mortals never really seeing them because they use the fog as their cover. Or I think of other people, real true living people and how from up ahead they can be black silhouettes, painted distinctly in the brightness of the fog but dark themselves. They would laugh or jump around, all things full of joy. And I could see them but not be a part of them because they are part of the fog. And like the fog they will always run away when I get near.

Meh. This is rambling.

Fin.
-Keshia

Currently Reading The Elements of Style by Willian Strunk and E.B White