Mist

"The mist crawls from the canal like some primordial phantom of romance."
Walking in the mist, the old song line creeps into my mind. Not unlike the phantom itself.
What is primordial, I wonder? But the thought soon fades, grayed by the dew that hangs in the air.

Misty. Has a good sound to it, pleasant even. Can it be pleasant being misty? Sure. I think.
"I've heard it in a love song. I guess that melody was written just for me."

There is no canal for this mist to appear from. Just the train tracks. A train whistle points out that they are there for a reason.
Funny how some sounds care about the mist. Voices, shouting, some way away - dulled by the mist. Whereas the shrill whistling from the train cuts through the dampness like a ray of light.
A yellow ray, a sound like bright sunshine.

In the sun, things are sharp, movements clear, intentions are ... there for you to see.
In the mist, while the same things are quite obviously there, the movements seem less important. And intentions are something you need to feel.
You can see me, but everything seems a little blurred, like if the mist makes close ups a little more distant.
Inside the mist, I feel ... safe, maybe ... tranquil, I think is the best way of putting it.

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Credits:
"Bitter Suite i) Brief Encounter". Marillion.
"A Brand New Life". R Brecker/C Norby.

Cross-posted from original Journal on H2G2