Smoke

Smoke is the physical depiction of air. As we cannot see the air move with the naked eye, so then, we must use our imaginations to visualize the movement of the sometimes still, sometimes ferocious motion of the wind. Air is lighter then a feather but it can tenderly carry the said epidermal growths of birds toward the furthest trenches of the earth and at the same time, overwhelm entire towns with its power. Like the memory of a distant friend, come to visit for a short time, it fades away as quickly as smoke would against the wind. But smoke in this scenario is the depiction of the wind in focus, and thus acts as a separate unit. Let's not forget.

Have you ever heard of God breathing life into a human being? Well, this is what he breathes into us. Air. But, for the sake of clairvoyance, let's call this entity - this body of air - smoke from now on. Smoke is what our souls are made up of, and without it we would cease to experience the world in the way we perceive it now. It would be different; something I cannot illustrate more clearly then in this manner: I know that it has been postulated, as if by institution, that the human body is just a vessel, but consider that we are often left with sentiments of raw vacancy, when we are graded an 'A' for a test we had cheated on or when, after having misbehaved, are left to our own penchant, by parents, teachers and other authority figures. You see, these acts hurt the soul. It is at these moments that our soul leaves us, momentarily.

There may be no evidence of its truth, but there is a definite belief in the soul. Not religion, nor science, can either prove or disprove it. The confidence in its existence is a gut feeling. It requires faith to believe in the soul, just as it requires faith to believe in God. But before I continue, let me ask you. Are you a man or woman - whichever the case may be - who has this level of devotion to the supernatural aspects of spirituality? If you are, by all stretches of the imagination unable to believe in any of which I have suggested then I beg you to segue from this text, and not read it at all. I am asking - you the reader - for a simple gesture... of good faith.

The train ride from the outer reaches of London toward its central stations can take up to about three hours. The trains, both underground and overhead, may be what connects all ten zones (zones one through six and zones A through D) with its circuit-board-like grid, but the London I know is restricted to zones one and two, and this is where our story will take place, at least for now.

Smoke appears and reappears around parts of zones one and two - above ground, of course, for what kind of London would it be, if smoke spent it beneath the surface - as a ghost like apparition traveling with the wind. It seems conscious of its movements.

The stream of smoke materializes on a desolate street corner in Central London. It then takes shape high above the Thames River. It floats over the waterway like a cloud, ever so peaceful. The full moon is brightly lit, more so on this night then any other night that I have ever bothered to bare witness to before. The moonlight enriches the colors of this plume of smoke - illuminating it to an incandescent gray.

Within moments, the trail of luminescent gray smoke dissipates, and then recurs for the last time tonight, atop the Westminster Abbey. We are too far away to decipher, but this plume of smoke looks to be resting, no wait, sitting at the highest point of the cathedral's clock tower. There are many things, which the light of the moon does not see, but it certainly sees this.