I am coming out of a fog—no, more a mist—walking out through an early-morning mist, climbing up a rise, seeing the mist below me now, to tops of trees poking through the greyness of it all.
This is how it is for me— the perfect metaphor for how I feel. Not like Plato's cave. That is an imperfect metaphor—too complex, too sedentary. Life is not beheld like a play. We are not static, we are within the process, always moving, sometimes walking in the mist—feeling its moistness on our skin, unsure of a direction, not seeing any object clearly to fully, sometimes rising out of it and realising what we have left behind, and seeing only the tops of the objects standing out—objects that previously led up and disappeared from view into the thickening mist.
Now, for the moment, I am above the mist—the world of error is below me, shrouded in the pleasant soft moisture of the mist. It is a good place to be—in the mist—but it is all error, misconception, misinterpretation—everything in the mist misleads us.
Now, for a moment, I am free—I can entertain everything, even things I do not know I can entertain. Yet how can I say that and believe it?
