A World of White

Living atop a mountain is certainly interesting, I have beautiful 360 degree views of the surrounding countryside and very little noise can be heard from the civilization that sprawls out over the valley below me. Another thing that is peculiar to living atop a mountain is the fact that I often live in the clouds. The fog that descends upon the mountain in the early morning and late night can only be described as breathtakingly ethereal in quality. The way the lights from the lampposts of my college barely shine through the fog-laden grounds can almost be described as magical.

However, too much of a good thing can be bad. For over a week, my mountain has been swallowed by the clouds. Every morning when I arise early in hopes of greeting the sun, I am disappointed for it is the fog alone that greets me. The brief respites I have from the fog covered world are in the late afternoon when the fog clears enough for the heavily overcast sky above to rain down on my mountain.

Walking across campus in a cloud, while seemingly awe inspiring at first, is actually quite cold and clammy. A constant breeze threatens to dislodge the cloak from my shoulders unless I grip it tightly about me. The way this wind whistles through the buildings and rustles the leafless trees creates a haunting melody that is both beautiful and eerie to listen to. But no matter how hard the wind gusts, it fails to drive away to ever pervasive clouds.

The many people around me are subdued. We walk to class in silence, barely paying heed to each other as our figures briefly materialize out of the fog only to be swallowed by it again. I have not seen the sun in over week, nor the stars and moon above. Instead it is only the clinging clouds that fill my vision, the vague outline of trees and the occasional buildings are the only things that break the monotony of white.

I, however, have found some comfort in the fog. For in the early morning when no one else is awake, I can venture out of my dorm to stand upon the wet grass in my bare feet, the wind toying with my long hair, the mist soaking me to the bone, and my cloak billowing out behind me in the breeze. With no one around me, the fog hanging heavily, and the morning just beginning to wake, I can let my mind wander to distant lands and forgotten times. Most often I imagine I am in the Shire, my hairy feet squelching in the rain-laden ground as I pad my way back to the comfort of my hobbit hole, or to the Green Dragon for a round of ale and good stories with close friends and fellow hobbits by the roaring fire.

It is in dreams like this that I often find myself able to reconcile that I was born in modern times. I may not live in the Shire nor have a comfortable hobbit hole, but I do have good friends, strong tea, a love of mushrooms and life like any good hobbit should, and my imagination. It is these things that help me make do and enjoy the times I was born in, I may never get to live in the Shire, or move back to the town I grew up in, but I have memories, my imagination, and the heart of a hobbit. Hobbits are hardy creatures, able to withstand much evil and adapt to what is around them, this is what I do and I often find that life can be very pleasant.

So, I will patiently wait for the sun, moon and stars to shine upon my mountain again, Until then, I will enjoy the early mornings in which I can let my mind wander to find a home in the Shire.

~Daisy Buttons