On Fog

A few days ago, fog engulfed the valley in which I live. I woke to a haze of subtle grey, which left me rather uninspired to leave the warm fog of my sleep. Nonetheless, a shower, some breakfast, and a hurried look at my watch, and I was out the door to school. Outside, walking with or against me, the people of my town seemed to carry not only the burdens of their daily chores, but also the weight of the oppressing fog.

Walking in fog that morning gave me a sense of blindness. The process of losing the sense of sight intrigues me more than almost any natural process I can comprehend. On the other hand, the ultimate fruit of the process terrifies me to at least the same degree -- and this despite my archetypification of the unsighted Borges. As the world dims, only the fool may resist savoring absolutely every hue and tone, knowing that such vivid forms and shades will one day exist only in his memory and his imagination.

To walk in fog is, necessarily, to wander. As I followed my normal path to the school, my landmarks appeared slowly before me, first as ominous shadows, then as undiscerned solids, and finally as dream-like self-impostors, their colors and details failing to reach full resolution. People, too. As if walking among my imperfect memories of my town, vague forms passed of people at whom I may once have casually glanced, but whose features were never committed to memory. And just as in a dream, only the shadows of those people and those landmarks which serve some active mental capacity manage to resolve into anything functionally recognizable.

On another note: Living as the only American in town often feels like living in a fishbowl. I can't say for sure, but I imagine that fish feel a bit more anonymous when their owners fail to clean the tank for a few weeks.

What are your thoughts on fog?