Delicate

I used to imagine that fog was created by the breath of sleeping people. In the early winter mornings when the fog would roll in and cover everything, I would picture millions of people asleep and breathing collectively, sending deep, slow breaths through all the walls and locked doors and windows, out into the air where they swirled together, hovering over the bare trees and orange streetlights.  

Everything is always so loud and chaotic. We are buried under layers and layers of waves; sound waves and light waves and electric waves. Everything swarming and buzzing. But the fog makes for a different kind of atmosphere, one where we overcome all of the endless noise and unite in silence.

I would stand outside in those foggy mornings and think of all the people in all the houses breathing together.  The smell of snow and burning wood. Breathing in and out. All at once. I would fill my lungs with cold air and let go of it very slowly.

In the most delicate ways, we are deeply connected to one another.

Breath intertwining with breath. My breath and your breath. Rising.

Floating up high, above all the noise, where everything is soft and quiet.