The Man in the Fog
Do you know that man who is always talking. Always thinking of theories that might have math behind them but he does not care because he did not get past college Algebra. He cuts and pastes History Channel specials and independent documentaries with some of everything he ever watched on TV and maybe read somewhere or referenced from Wikipedia.
He has a theory for the universe and the multi-verse and the inner-verse that would make scientists giggle and leave the religious praying for his soul. Why is he like this? I have wondered this for some time and believe it is rather simple. He questions. All science. All history. All media. Everything we see as our reality. And he thinks about it. Talks about it. Writes about it. Until it turns into a fog. A dense gray fog. One that can be seen when he walks through the hallways at work or when he is jazzed about something at a social gathering and feels open enough to discuss the fog. The fog is not finite. It cannot be bottled or summed up in this diatribe.
The fog is tangents and turns and targets scribbled on napkins. Theories that do not relate and science that is near proven with and if/then statement by a conspiracy theory that has not been unproven. UFOs and baby Jesus lived together in a world where things made sense because prophets are aliens. Humans evolved from a single cell from space dust. Or were planted here by an alien race. The twin towers were not destroyed by planes. They were blown up for insurance money. Or not. Maybe we made it to the moon, or not. Maybe we went to war in Iraq for real reasons or not. By now you see how it could all tie together if only we let it sew itself together and then pull itself apart.
This is not science. This is not art. This is life. Thought. Consciousness. A random river of thought that ties us all together because at the core, all ideas are one. Coming from one source. The oneness of infinity leaves no one out. It takes the genius and the silly and smears it with jelly. Wraps it up with a nice bow of almond butter and regurgitates itself, over and over and over. Until it is okay to not know why, but to still wonder. And to keep on asking because asking is our thunder. The lighting that steals the sky. As the flesh hides. The mind glides high above the fog where reason and logic can’t describe.
The magic of life.
That man is me…