My friends often wonder where under the misty sky and fog-betrothed woods, I so often disappear, while they revel, preferring to stay indoor and cheer their spirits up. The reason of course is the fact that they are unaware of my affinity with the mist and the fog, which can be traced way back when I was a child.
Transfixed, I would watch, with unbelievable eyes the fact that the so-thought mist entering through my window was in reality clouds, in a slightly transformed form. To be amidst clouds was something like being a character of one of the Grimes fairy tales.
I would then, as I do now, love to watch the clouds enter into my room through the open window, engulfing me into a hazy shawl. Despite my parent's disapproval of my venturing out in the mountainous woods when they were being embraced by the descending fog, I would be too overwhelmed to follow their command. The love has remained intact; despite the fact that now I am in my fifties.
My passion for such solitary walks has always trailed me like a shadow. The reason, I find the mist very mysterious. It has the ability to give even the recognisable and the familiar an alien look. The known gets covered by a guise that disguises the customary.
I still find such rendezvous very inviting. For the fog has the power to eliminate all disparities, just as the night has to obliterates all divisions. It is like being overwhelmed by no discrimination or distinctions.
If you permit your intellect to lie dormant for a while, you will find the fog and the mist reveal their real form. How you perceive it will depend upon how your own psychological and mental make up is. To some, this total `engulfment' might appear like a funeral shroud; cold and creepy. To others, it might be an invitation of a thinly clad beauty for the warmth of their breath. For me it has always been rapturous.
I find it both, a romantic and a mystique allurement. When ever I have trodden down the fog covered path up the mountains, with no fixed destination and no inhibitions, I have felt as if I have been softly lifted by the clouds in their tender arms to their own realm. It is a sheer transportation; it is a transformation from the real to the magical; from facts of science to the laws of fantasy.
Imaginary world
Why we fear to tread down an imaginary world is incomprehensible to me. Momentary periods of fancy-full flights and freedom overruling reason and justification, can help us feel more refreshed, specially when we restart our confrontations with the actualities' of life.
The mist, when it covers you in its tunic appeals to all your senses. You can smell the frosty crispness of fresh fallen snow, sliding down the mountain sloops; overhear the whispers of the descending clouds; taste the chill; feel the fog and see nature in her bridal attire. At such moments I do not like the dazzle of the sun, for the piercing rays unravel the real.
I am not an escapist; but on no account, opposed to such occasional fanciful escapades once in a while. The reason: They are not only rejuvenating but also revitalising. Blue is beautiful; but not blue mood, for that is a sign of depression and despondency. During such cloudy moments, let fancy uncover your dreams and watch them take form, like characters on a celluloid screen.
A fog is not just a near-frozen shroud of water droplets. It is also a sort of a confessional curtain, by the side of which we can own up our gnawing guilts and regret over the follies and pray for redemption, unobserved. Remember, to accept one's weakness is like the first step of a child, who is learning to tread over the uneven path of life.
Vimal Yogi Tiwari is a journalist based in India.
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