morning fog
10 December 1999

Crossing West over 128 on my way to work this morning was like crossing into a void. Rich, white vapor began to cling outside my car windows, swallowing jagged rocks and barren trees and other innocent cars whole.

Fog reminds me of my childhood pictures of New England. Once I drove through the fog to get the bookstore on a Sunday morning and Michael met me outside the store. I told him that before I moved to Boston, I thought every day would look like this: sleepy-hollowesque with mist seeping into every pore. I was a little disappointed to find out I was wrong.

Fog makes me hopeful. It gives me artistic license. I create a world just outside of my vision: massive mountains that line the highway and bigger, better destinations just up ahead. On the exit ramp this morning, moving slowly toward the tollbooth, I looked southwest to where my office always looms overhead, but today it was gone... swallowed whole like the rocks and trees and cars.

A tingle of hope.

This morning while driving West into the void, I was thinking about how loss cleans our slate and grants us opportunity. Tyler Durden clichés were running through my brain: "Once you've lost everything, you can do anything." I thought about airports and how missing a connecting flight showers me with spontaneity. I search the destination monitors to find one more appealing than the ticket I'm holding. I even go as far as the gate, watch the other passengers, pretend to be one of them, pray for the courage to slip off into the void.

As I let my foot off the gas and coasted onto the off ramp at exit 13, the taillights of fellow cars grew dimmer and dimmer until they were completely enveloped by a wall of white. I envied them all on their unknown path, embellished with romantic expectations and idealistic dreams.

And hope.

Who do you envy?