I’m living in a mist storm. Occasionally rain punctuates it, pounds down on my tin roof with a savageness that is exciting, primal. At those times, drops of water leak through the roof, and I take refuge under my soft woolen blanket, hiding my head and blanking out all thoughts. It’s a time to become very meditative, very still, and it happens naturally, a consequence of all the other-worldly noise. My mind goes completely silent as the monsoon ravages the roof.
Usually though, it’s just mist. Mist that you inhale, mist that makes your skin shiny, mist that ensures your clothes are never truly dry, mist that hides the trees from the garden, mist that moves up the mountains like a shifting band of ghosts. The mist is unreal, it has a life of its own, a chameleon shape that turns the green hills and valleys into a game of hide and go seek. Now you see it, now you don’t. One moment the path is clear, the next it has disappeared.
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