The fog lays down its glassy blanket, giving life to barren things. Interest given freely for no reason but interpretation.
I’m walking enshrouded.
My feet crunching ice as I roam the concrete hills. The clean tidy pathways of Suburban Domesticity that dare you to desecrate their unfounded innocence.
Another day, in a different place, a young woman walks by, self-righteous and sure.
It’s cold and my roaming called for yak. Re-donning my traveling wool brought me back to a different country, but the same piercing cold cuts into the same beating veins.
I live in several places at once, partly in the past, eyes to the future, stomach firmly grounded. Grounded in comfort, too sated to leave, holding on to the pantry door against the tempest of uncertainty. But my eyes roam. My legs roam. My mind – my Self ——— roams.
Into the wind and the cold, that beautiful uncertainty — the great unknown.
Seeing my family, my friends, gives me the heart-clenching joy of familiarity and long-founded love. But my mind gets lazy as I assimilate into groundhog days of wake-eat-work-lounge-sleep.
This ain’t my scene.
The world beats around me, beyond me, but I’m here, and I’m happy. And Comfortable.
But comfort breeds complacency.
An age-old enemy of creativity.
It’s time to check my miles.