Thoughts from a Thinking Girl

Early morning gray mist descended on bare branches etched charcoal.
 

The edges blurred, sky and tree and rooftops and cars, usually separated by clear lines defining the where one begins, another ends, now intermingled in a wash of grays.

My usual sense of separateness was revealed to be fantasy. I was just another being moving within the fog, under the fog, through the fog.
My eyelids became heavy with the fatigue of early rising and the hypnotic lull of travel. Jostled into an infant-like lullaby of mist and myth.

I rested in the liminal, simultaneously slumbering and awake to the highway hijinks obscuring reality, the shimmering mirage as if everything outside the window was unfurling, unraveling, the old movie set trick of keeping the actors in one place and moving the backdrop.

I could tell the story either way. That I was standing still and all around me was moving. That all around me was held by concrete in a singular place and time and it was me alone who was moving through.

Confusing, these moments, when it is unclear what is static and what moves, which parts of my soul are traveling and which parts I’ve mistaken for permanent, unmovable concrete. Which elements, though shrouded in veils of fog and mist, become the playground of eagles.