The fog was thick last night, it rolled in heavy and laid over southern New Hampshire like a wool blanket. It made me itch the same way. I used to think I hated driving in the snow and the rain. Turns out I just dislike driving in said weather and truly hate traversing the highways of my state while fog is a variable. Fuck fog. Driving up route three, I followed the car in front of me as if it were the small vehicle on a GPS app. Leading me. Guiding me. To my right and left, nothing but thick white. In front of me a set of headlights danced.
What’s eerie about fog and what doesn’t exist with other weather is the call. There’s something extremely dark and depressing about driving in what I can only describe as a tunnel of nothing. Eventually a ditch feels a bit more welcoming than the road. As we approached the toll booth I could have been anywhere. The lights that normally signalled to drivers that they were nearing the states approved panhandlers weren’t visible until I was all but on top of them. It’d be so easy to really fuck up.
After thirty minutes of fog I began to feel very lonely, even with Aj in the passengers seat- that shit, it has a way of making you think things you wouldn’t normally conjure up. Like what if while I’m doing sixty five in this fifty five, a deer were to spring out? I wouldn’t even see it coming. Or a car that was having issues. Or a person crossing the highway back to their car issues. Everything just splattered across pavement like some never before seen or sold Van Gough. Beautiful. Magnificent.
Or the worst one I think, probably, would have to be the thought of how a highway densely layered in fog kind of just feels like life. Like how you’re waiting for the end to come so for the first time in x-amount of too many years you can finally see and feel something different. Even if that different is just black, a void. It’s something.