An early morning walk, a Sunday; but to label the day detracts from the nondescript beauty of anonymity-cloaking fog. Engulfed in silence, enveloped with questions, engorged with the opportunity to simply escape.
A lone tree stands black and bleak in contrast to the faded greens below and the grey whites that swirl behind its branches in the background. A statement that speaks in a thousand voices to all of those who will listen.
The absence of birds is duly noted.
Have you ever noticed the different sounds of silence? True silence is never achieved, as our ears either ring, or pulse, or throb. The silence of fog is a hiss, and wisps of air dense with water, punctuate my senses as I drift slowly through the decelerated passing of time.
Fog is an opportunity to escape: the contracting visibility is an expanding vision; introspection sharpens focus on the internal, yet outlook is inherently enlarged; expanded upon.
I gorge on solitude as fog clouds the familiar: a nourishing metamorphosis that envelops both the landscape, and the contours of my soul.
A Seasoned Soul. 