Am I anything? I am a speck, a mote, a mere molecule, tinier and more oblique than a drop of fog. Fog. Each drop nothing, but bound together with other molecules, the invisible becomes opaque and fierce. A pall cold and dominating.
Why can’t we have fog that is warm? Steaming mists would be so much more comfort to the body than this seeping chill. Oh, God, I suppose it would not take me long to complain about the heat, but from this morning’s vantage point it sounds so good.
My heart’s desire is buried in heavy mist. The only delight available to me is tucking my head under a blanket, warming myself before a fireplace, dozing with a cat. How do you define lack of ambition, depression, lazy?
Every hack and cough I overhear from another room grates on my nerves and tightens my stomach muscles. Each conversation or television broadcast intrudes. Hide me away from others. Hide me away from the world. Hide me from myself. Wrap me in something warm and let me sip tea from a china cup. These are simple enough requests; simple pleasures, available, and I am not even taking pleasure in them.
I’m waiting God. Where is your voice? Knocking at the steely fortress surrounding me? Sigh. Can I get my soul to tiptoe out to open that door? Okay. What? Peering out I see only more wispy whiteness. Is the God spirit just another swirling mist?
“Rest. Release. Breathe in. Breathe out. Here am I in everything.
And everything is just as is it supposed to be.
Accept it and be at peace.
Also, stop whining.”
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