Fog

[mallorys_camera]

I woke up this morning and couldn't stop crying. Really, it was the oddest thing. I knew I was crying because I was exhausted, because gray fog has been hunkering down for a week now over just this one spot, town and harbor. A mile away you can see blue skies and sunlight, but here it drifts so dense, so close to the ground, it's actually drizzle.

Because I was crying - a physical act my psyche equates with grief - my mind supplied misery. What is the point of being alive? I wondered. It's more of the same old same-old punctuated by occasional adrenalin kicks.

But, of course, What is the point of being alive? is a rhetorical question. I already know the answer.

There is no point.

You have to accept that and get on with things.

Comments

[mallorys-camera.livejournal.com]

Oh, yeah. I get those hits often. It's interesting that it's a visual cue for you -- for me it's often a brief intriguing interaction that suggests a complex narrative arc. The difference between being an artist and being a writer, I guess.