I really love misty mornings. They convey
something unknown. Undiscovered. Yet familiar but somewhat different. Why? We’ve seen the things hiding in their
foggy veil a thousand times. Sure we did… but isn’t “mystery” what is written in the air hovering just above the river?
Mystery that wants to be explored and revealed. I still think that somebody
might have misspelled mystery with a “y”. Somehow it makes you wonder if you
really recall the things as they are. Familiarity is a tricky thing. You can
never be too sure. Then the fog lifts and it’s exactly what you thought, right?
Well, kinda. Almost. More or less, you know…
I look out of the window and see blurred
buildings, silhouettes. Fog-shrouded they play hide and seek. In the distance
there is a kind of milky nothingness bearing something after all. It’s calling:
The closer you are, the better you know.
I go out and feel the chilly mask being placed
on my face. It takes some time for my lungs to adjust to the harsh air. My head
appreciates the clearing, awakening effect. Then my eyes try to make out shapes
and fail. My lips, however, crack a subtle smile. It’s a misty morning lasting
for a while. 
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