My Favorite Place
I am not often enough asked where it is I believe my favorite place to be. I believe this to be the case because, mostly, I do not have any new acquaintances to ask me such a question; and of the acquaintances I do have, I’ve noticed that the questions they ask tend to steer the conversation in a direction which they do not dare allow to resemble “small talk”. (It must be noted here that it is not my intention to acquaint myself solely with those who have an aversion to small talk. It’s just the manner in which my life seems to have unfolded thus far). But underneath it all, in the heart of the matter, what I really believe is that everyone knows better than to ask me such a question, because more likely than not, they have already suspected that I have some outlandish disheartening reply already pre-prepared. - And to this, I say that they are absolutely correct. I do, indeed, have a pre-prepared reply to this question of which I am so seldom, if ever asked, yet so wish to be asked. Therefore, to save everyone, including myself, the trouble of waiting for the fated moment, I will preemptively end the matter by leaving my answer here.
My favorite place… my favorite place manifests itself somewhere up in the mountains, right at the altitude where it becomes uncertain as to whether the haze that envelops the space is composed of fog or clouds. The particulars of the mountains themselves: whether their altitude is high and their peaks snowy, or that they cluster around a volcano with only tufts of the toughest wildflowers growing along their crags- it matters not. It is only the white gauze that is critical.
It is also necessary that the day be overcast. The blanket overhead combined with the foggy surround gives the feeling that in the immediate coming moments, it’s entirely possible that all of which is currently visible, can instantly be swallowed up in the smoke, save for perhaps, the tip of the nose. Of course, this won’t actually happen. It’s just the feeling that it might happen that’s necessary.
As for the temperature, it must be cold. The actual degree of bitterness, however, matters not. It’s only important that its presence is felt. It is also best that there be some degree of wind so that the feeling of a slight struggle to maintain a clear view of what lies ahead persists beyond the conditions of the environment, and into the physical function of the body. In all cases though, the air is clean and pure. And if it isn’t clean and pure, the air must at least feel different. And because it feels different, when it’s breathed in, it pierces through the lungs like little daggers.
An ephemeral biosphere is what it is- a dome of varying shades of white and grey which only allows for somewhere between twenty to a hundred feet out in any direction to be clearly seen before the eyes are met with the walls of an abyss. What lies beyond can only be revealed in increments equal to the footsteps braved forward. An overwhelming feeling hangs heavy in the air that truly anything could be beyond the veil. It could be God. It could be a monster.
What friends that might have followed along disappear through the fog, as they wander off in their own directions. There is no one left in sight. Occasionally, other visitors will wander into visibility. Other times only their voices are heard: “There is nothing here to see.” “It is cold.” “Why did we take the trouble to come all this way?” … And just as suddenly as their voices and bodies wandered in, so too will they wander out; and the space returns to the insulated sphere it originally was. It feels entirely possible the others never existed at all.
- And above all, of all of the above, I love it all- love it for its mirroring- a reflection of how it is existence is experienced under my cap. The complaints issued from the passing bodies encompasses it all: life, in my estimation, has, in its essence, never not been unknowable, uncomfortable, and ever uncertain in its rewards. On the good days, I can give it form, imbue it with meaning, put up a brave face. But when things start to crumble, I’m stripped and dropped back into my cloudy cloche.
…And so, with all that said, I leave my answer here- doing so, so as to preemptively answer a question, of which I am so seldom, if ever, asked, and yet, so very much long to be asked- thus sparing any unsuspecting guest that might have accidentally been seated next to me, of this dour reply, which I had hoped would be given, at a future dinner party, of which I will never attend.
