I love and hate getting up early– the world is different for the earlier hour, something strange and new, before unseen, unknown, and undiscovered. But, the hour is earlier, and sufferer of (or reveller in) insomnia that I am, this means less sleep. I got about 3 hours last night. It is enough.
This morning the world woke hazy, and a thick mist bubbled the glow from the sodium-arc street lights. I walked light-dome to light-dome on my way to work in the sunless sleepless predawn, fog curling around me, warm and inviting. I remembered other foggy nights, other foggy mornings, the school bus ride in Connecticut, fog in fingers grasping the hillsides during the steaming spring, or in Palm Court the night I met a Nightstalker muted by mist and amid a mass of beachballs, or down by the bay speaking to herons with a cigar in my hand, a haze severing the bayfront from the world outside of Faerie. Fog creates another world, a tinier one, around us. It causes us to turn inward, reaching through ourselves past the thick cotton lining we’ve wrapped ourselves in, buffering us from the world. It muffles the sound of our searchings. It settles us to stillness.
It was strange to start a day haunted with this. Strange and not bad. Strange and sweet. Something to hold onto. Something to keep, here in my still silent searchings.