Everyday Canvas

A Foggy Free-flow

Prompt: Fog, Crossroads, Stairway; use these words any way you want in your writing entry today.

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Something hangs there to be said about fog, muffling the sharp edges in a gentle blanket, the shrouding element of it with a soft grayness as if it is a “stairway to heaven.” Why is it that, anytime I start to write anything, a song breaks through my consciousness? Oh, what the…, I might as well go with it.

For the one who is buying the stairway to heaven, “If the stores are all closed/ With a word she can get what she came for…” She can? Maybe that floozy knows how to handle the crossroads in getting what she wants, how to take the “less traveled road.”

Go away, Frost! I am trying to stay with the fog, today. “'Cause you know sometimes words have two meanings//In a tree by the brook//
There's a songbird who sings// Sometimes all of our thoughts are misgiving/” And maybe she really has bought the stairway to heaven.

Whether she made it up on that stairway or not, the fog is sometimes a heavy feeling of being only half-awake, of living in a dreamlike state, something like sleepwalking. That, in reality, is a mental disorder caused by a faulty thyroid, which makes “our shadows taller than our soul.” Thank you, Led Zeppelin, but enough for now.

Related to shadows, maybe the fog is only an external vision of the mind, and the soul, in our core, is the more important dramatic part that intensifies our colors as in a sunset or sunrise. The fog may point to a scene like in Dickens’ muddy and extremely polluted London streets of the mid-nineteenth century, in hyperbole because all writers love hyperbole, to show the lowly coal-burning “making a soft black drizzle with flakes of soot” versus Dickens’ loftier writing soul cheering the inimitable British Empire.

And my mind, in its foggy state, roams around “every which way, but loose.” What, Clint Eastwood now?

That does it. My fifteen minutes of entry-writing time is just about up anyway. Read at your own risk.