Lost in the fog. Not seeing clearly. Not knowing. Uncertainty. Not understanding.
The horizon is there and I am here and I can’t know the horizon unless I go to it, seek it out, put my hands and feet and lips on it, touch it, breathe it in. And yet? And yet, the horizon line does not exist. It is a concept, an imaginary line, constructed, construed from nothing into something and when you arrive at it, it is not there, or it’s moved or it’s rendered invisible by the very eyes that are looking so hard for it.
We cannot imagine endless infinity so we parse it out according to what our eyes and brain can take in. Create a horizon line, a line of sight that’s framed, that promises what’s digestible, knowable.
There is no fog, no getting lost, no horizon line to find, no frame, no infinity to worry about. There is perspective. There is choice. There is weather, there is mind and there is a mental map that can make a mess of everything. There is here and now and there and then and a rock in a river that knows it comes from mountain.
Fog machines do their job. The line is lost or moved or erased or turned around or exchanged. It beckons unseen from beyond a doorway, through the gated mists of not knowing, with whispers of trusting, of doing, of sensing, of being here, now.