Bubbles

There is something about a quiet early morning walk through the mist that whispers to us of secrets we have long ago let slip out of memory and thought. Trapped in a bubble that moves with us as we move, the 'immediate' seem pure and fathomable even as the air itself is haunted by grey shadows, and the world blurs beyond our near reaches.

If we are able to listen through the noise of rush-hour traffic, the mist may speak to us in muted voice, reminding us how we often ensnare ourselves in bubbles of our own perception or making. It is not only the opulent in a depraved society or the self-righteousness among the dammed that inhabit bubbles. We who cloak ourselves with the familiar - not always for the lack of empathy or generosity to connect and share with the unfamiliar, but for the lack of curiosity to cultivate an appreciation of the diversity around us - also seek refuge in an illusion of clarity in a world made obscure.

But as we walk, the mist gradually renders the invisible road ahead into view even as it dissolves the landmarks we have already passed into ever lighter shades of grey. Our memories may froth in a certain kind of nostalgia for what has passed out of sight.

To the extent that time is allowed to define the boundaries of our lives; we are tempted to choose friends by their proximity rather than trust or faithfulness. Yet, it is all part of the adventure of life that we often forsake the intimate and familiar in the hope of the glorious unknowns that an unknowable tomorrow may veil behind its haze for us. Perhaps it is part of the human condition that we are lured by the enigmatic and find just reward in the thrills of discovery. An insatiable desire to unravel that which seems mysterious is what often entice us to take the next risk, or step through the mist of time; sometimes for better and sometimes for worse.

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