Precepts Forged in Fog

I write to you from a wild, flying island. I deliver like a drunken stork the ramblings and semi-realizations from an aerial perspective where detail is sacrificed for broad scope--but only when the fog permits any visibility at all.

On the beak of a great bird diving in stationary swoops around and around the northern hemisphere's rotations of an invisible axis, I try not to slip and fall into the icy, sea-monster infested ocean.

From my precarious position, and tentative perception, I have immense faith that I will acquire no following or even a lone hitchhiker with daring enough to grab a hold of a slate tail-feather and launch into the white void of blindness and the ultimate unknown.

On the brief and infrequent occasions when the fog clears, and I can see so clearly the beauty and wonder of life, I can almost say that all of the wandering and wondering was worth it, but as soon as I open my mouth to inhale the fresh air and exclaim loudly the praise of such moments to my loving creator, a horde of mosquitos beelines for my face and the joy of temporary fulfillment is again blotted out as I close my eyes against their attack, shake the song like tiny motors from my ears and flee to find a breeze that will carry them away.

Besides endorsing the environmentally devastating product of DEET, I mostly want to convey a sense of hope that the moments of lucidity and astounding beauty will continue along the journey of my life, and that I will grow more in wisdom, preparedness, and sheer brutality so that I may blast the hell out of any invaders who might wish to spoil those times.