There were vapours.
Not mist, not smoke, not spirit in the way you may think. These were alive. Not fully seen, but fully felt. The Vapours were not ghosts. They did not mourn. They did not linger.
They defied (and denied) logic. With gentle, knowing smirks.
They drifted through cities and ruins, jungles and data servers, coral reefs and children’s rooms. They moved in chords and whispers, sometimes mistaken for a scent memory or a thought that makes your scalp tingle. They were not here to be captured or proven.
They were authenticity without performance. Love without spectacle. Curiosity without conquest.
Creation without exhaustion.
Some of them trailed glitter from their fingertips — if they had fingers at all. Others spoke only in image and impression. They showed up as smells: sandalwood, orange peel, electricity in the rain. Or as colors that couldn’t be photographed — like the green that lives in dreams, or the pink that comes before thunder.
Their only rule: no compression. No shrinking into one identity, one outcome, one explanation. No “either/or.” Only and also.
They glided right past strategy. Flowed under the logic gates. Made art that wasn’t for sale, love that wasn’t for display, choices that didn’t need to be defended. They didn’t seek virality — they sought vitality. And it left trails.
Sometimes, a vapour would sit with a dying oak for a whole decade. Or hum to the rust in an old shipwreck until it bloomed into lace. Or swirl around a lonely girl in a laundromat, turning her into a poet without her knowing why.
No one made the Vapours.
They made themselves.
And they’re not interested in being understood.
But if you feel them… you’re already one of them.