The Fog

I find that when glass is adjusting to a new humidity, 

It always fogs up.

Without fail.

Such as…

When you take the lens cap off your camera by the beach.

Or when day turns to night

And the water seems to jump from the waves to the window.

I watch my old bathroom mirror

As I increase the temperature of the shower from cold to steaming.

That steam begins to latch on to the glass,

Enveloping my image in a dreary haze.

I can still make myself out, for now,

Or at least my outline,

But soon I will be completely and utterly suffocated.

“What am I, then?”

I ask the mirror.

How can I know I’m still there, present and feeling and alive

When I can’t even make out my form in this old bathroom mirror.

I realize to answer that question I first have to ask myself another:

“What was I, then?”

Because how am I supposed to know what I am now if I didn’t even know when I could see it right in front of me?

But then again, was that even me?

Am I, at the core of my being, just a reflection of what I see in an old mirror in Myrtle beach?

So if what I see isn’t me — and what I saw not either — then how could I possibly begin to form an answer to the impossible question of “what am I, then?”

Perhaps I am not what I see of myself, 

and instead what I see of everything around me.

I am the waves, constantly changing and drifting and taking new forms.

I am the road, paving the way for the hustle and bustle of traffic, sometimes loud and obnoxious, sometimes calm and quiet.

I am the stars, bright and full of purpose.

And, of course, I am the fog. 

Changing as I adjust to a new atmosphere, 

A new life.

The fog doesn’t stay forever, 

even though it seems as though it might. 

It goes away eventually,

But it can always come back.

And it’s good if it comes back.

Because I don’t need my reflection to know who I am.

What I need is the fog.