Tales From the Down Under: #23- The Fog

As I drew out the curtain I saw almost nothing before me but clouds of white smoke predominating the scenery. It was one of those few days when fogs descend the city. I have an inexplicable penchant for fogs, which are impressively neutral, positioning between the drab clearness and the radical inclemency. I saw the fogs cleared before me, gradually, in dribs and drabs. Without any assistance from the sun the fogs petered out until dim traces of buildings or every-day-matters crept their way back in their forts.

I’ve been aspiring to do music and working diligently for years to hone my ability and knowledge just to make me eligible for the career. Owing it to my volatile taste in too many genres I have yet pinpointed of what direction I should tend to. The problem surfaced as well on my writing, which are frankly a batch of desultory rots that offer no fruits for your grey matter. It is a topic or a concept that I’m constantly stressing upon and groping for, or else things just litter around, scattering about. A lasso quivers itself to hint at its importance.

I once read a most honest account of traveling into darkness and out of it. The ship plunges into the dark without a premonition and while the sailors are desperate to crawl their way out, the overcast darkness just fizzles out as suavely as when it sets in. No further description or embellishments are given to detail the unnerved situation the sailors are in, or any explanation of how they eventually escape from such hot water. The story just fleshes out itself due to its lack of information, and a most palpable horror it casts upon readers.

I’m always feeling myself trying to scramble out of an encompassing fog and have been pulled back incessantly. With this disheartening situation one can only be hopeful that one will eventually come out blob however an auspicious end often comes without any notice. It is not like I’ve never even got a glimpse of light!

The fog didn’t wear off itself as swiftly as it appeared to be. Drops of tears left on the windows, the only testimony of a writhing metamorphosis.

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Musings. Ex Libris

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