Lost in the trail of my thoughts, in the center of the fog, walking freely and openly into the mist, taking it all in, being right in the middle of a beautiful, bright nothingness where everything makes sense and doesn't make sense; with one hand extended, as though I'm going to crash into a wall, I keep walking through the fog across the bridge, unable to get enough of this sensation of being enveloped in the thickness, soaking in every moment of this inability to see anything but white space and shadows and laughter and rainbows; the mist enters my parted lips. I'm on a tightrope that has no end, no beginning; where I can't fall and I am in utter bliss...
As the fog tiptoes back to where it came from, everything is in full view. Everything glistens and it feels as if I'm viewing the skyline, the buildings, the people–everything–for the first time. It's there, then it's not; then it's there again–the vision heightened by it's disappearance.
Inspired by Fujiko Nakaya's Fog Bridge at the Exploratorium in San Francisco