Yesterday a cloud leaned over the village. From here I could see it white, lying along the streets of the small Taumarunui. Between the houses it took labyrinth forms, sometimes knocking at the door, sometimes going below and without permission. The villagers felt so extraordinary. I do not know why, maybe because among the mist nobody would see them, or perhaps because breathing something so pure goes right inside…
Taumaranui fog is spreading as do the smells
As does the aroma of coffee in the morning,
As does your scent, your perfume when you pass me by
So the fog goes drugging people through the windows,
through doors and chinks… and nostalgia comes… A nostalgia for the non vivid years, the caresses never given, the forgotten lovers, memories that were never remembered, the inherent sadness of things
things as the nature and the tree
things as the broken chair in the corner,
or as dry wood.
The fog is breathed, tested, it enters the pores, ears, penetrates itself as ourselves … and we go around with eyes that see the minutes different, because we are more aware, because we see the moments in the moment, because while the time is time, it’s nothing; and while time is time, is the instant where there is no time.
Taumaranui mist dissolves altogether, and people sink back
in their daily routine
of see the things