Wearing big black headphones from the eighties, a cardigan that used to be her granddad’s, and her worn-in jeans, she walks around in the fog gracefully. She steps with the beat for a while but then stops herself. She refuses to be controlled by an MP3. Occasionally she feels compelled to twirl or move around and sometimes people smile and laugh at her. She wonders when dancing became humorous or embarrassing. It doesn’t really matter, she’s secretly in a world where music notes swirl through the fog and erase all the world’s problems and embarrassment doesn’t exist. She lays down on the grass at the park and does some automatic writing in her tired notebook of secrets. She can only write with pen and paper, computer screens are simply too impersonal. With the shuffling of songs on her ipod, her mood changes. She blushes, cries, smiles, and dances. She’s no longer in control, if she ever really was. She falls asleep briefly after a particularly dreamlike song and wakes up with a pile of polaroids next to her. She looks through the pictures and sees they are all of her in her various emotional states surrounded by fog. She searches around her to see who might have left these pictures and sees no one. She is both frightened and flattered and decides to collect them in her small leather bag. As she walks back from the park to her small house she turns the volume down so she can listen to the silence of the fog and smiles.
symphony of thought