Fog obscured the view, shrouding the world until it resembled a shadow realm, a fleeting impression of life beyond. The fog was composed of thousands of microdroplets, instantaneous condensation from the collision of humid breath and frigid glass, creating a kaleidoscopic view if you could only squint your eyes just so.
If you could, what would you really see? Would it be like seeing through the eyes of a fly, your human mind inundated by the sheer volume of information so your eyes go cross? Or would you see the world anew, each drop emphasizing a different part of the landscape, a natural observatory with a thousand telescopes directed at the surrounding world rather than the enveloping cosmos?
The window, like the fog, acted as a barrier between the viewer and the viewed. It created a depersonalization, a separation, between you and the object of your curiosity. So why? Why did you rub the fog away, subsequently ignoring the cold spreading from the damp spot on your sleeve? Why did you press your face up to the cold-radiating glass, unaware of the plumes of fog that billowed under your nose? What possessed you to forget the immediate world in favor of some separate dimension?
Only this: a pair of blue eyes, themselves windows, obscured by fog.
*This was a piece I wrote for a creative fiction class I took online through Gotham Writers' Workshop. Very good class.*
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