Out of the Gray

 

Out of the Gray

The world goes by gray or forest green. Sometimes there are whitish squiggles leading somewhere into the fog, or big blobs of blackened green as trees.

The land is landish and the fog is flat, forming an indistinct horizon. The scene outside the train would have been food for impressionists. It gives the feeling of being suspended, of sky searching for land and land searching for itself.

I am glad to be behind glass, feeling protected from the drabness. As long as the florescent lights of the train illuminate a little too much, the blue of the seats stays shocking, and the red line shows the way to the exit, I am safe. Gray is for people outside the train, not me. I am where there is bright. I will not fall into the smoke.

I am aware this is a selfish view of my position, but maybe it's also self preservation. I don't want to be pulled in a direction I don't want to go. The train is flying past the gray and I paid to be on it. I worked to be on it.

And now I'm looking out at a world I had assumed was stuck, but in reality there are red warning lights through the fog. They are break lights signaling "stop!" or "I have stopped".

If only people used those break lights as well, then maybe there would be less miscomprehension and more understanding.

Suddenly, the sun burns through the mist, unapologizing and strong. It all makes sense for a second: I am supposed to get off, and bring my light with me.

Text: Kristen Mastromarchi

Photo: Alan Levine, Directions to the Fog