Really Quick: thoughts on fog

Fog, the kind that tempts

Tempts me to wave the white flag

The white flag, the kind that purely gives up

Gives up on deriving meaning and making sense

Making sense, the kind that calls me to leave the abstract pool

The abstract pool where the laps of water cover me

Me, the kind that desires to wave the white flag in strength

In strength as I climb down from the general commodity and into the specificity

The specificity, the kind that steps into the creek where each tiny stone hits the bottoms of my sensitive feet,

reminding me of you.

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Filed under Psychology, seasons

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