Fog

The skies outside of my window couldn’t be clearer. It goes on forever.

Fog too, has been, and will come again. It closes in.

Yet the space inside my tiny brain is infinite. And it can encompass both these realities.

Or … it can be the prison that tries to capture them both. Either by trying to hold onto my concepts of reality (impossible) or, if unpleasant, by pushing them deep into an even tinier solitary confinement in that same tiny brain (they will escape).

It’s better when I don’t treat my brain as a prison, and myself as the guard, who both guards and is contained by that same prison.

Space is big. And so is consciousness.

ps. And so is my ability to aim at something with my brain and not quite hit what I’m aiming at. But hey, practise makes perfect.