empty handed
and a tornado of innumerable Blue Tits
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Hello. This post is about Death & Birds.
There is a thick fog weighing in the valley. It crept in one night and has stayed for days. I don’t know how to feel about it, as I cannot tell whether it is suffocating or cradling me. Midweek, its soft cocoon shielded me from the potential insult of the sun, but yesterday it wrapped its hands around my throat and prevented me from breathing in the view. Perhaps, like Death, this Rorschachian fog is a mirror. Life refracts through each of us like prisms. The spectrum that we cast—and therefore see—is determined by our inner geometry.