I hide in the fog.
It is my convenient excuse for my failures, for no rain.
Who wants rain?
Everyone wants a sunny day.
Rain is the work and sun is the fun.
But who would we be without the other?
But again and again I am all rain or all sun.
Only mud or burn.
It is shame that brings fog.
Or sometimes it is guilt.
Indulgence or Laziness.
In the fog is no man’s land.
Or maybe I just need relief from the sun.
And a break from the rain.
What is the place that is neither work nor fun?
Where I punish myself with no sunlight.
But I can no longer whip myself to do work?
It is un-rest.
A terminal holding pattern of unhappiness.
But it could be a beginning too.
Or a middle.
Or an end.
It could BE something.
It could even be beautiful.
But how can I tell?
When I am lost in the fog?