The fog and the mountain - how insight reveals itself

Through the fog of distractions you must go,

The Mountain's wisdom awaits at the far edge

 

Clarity and insight come mostly from dwelling on things over long periods of time.

It might feel like they appear in a moment, like in a flash of brilliance, but they actually come when the mind has been quietly marinating in certain ideas.

For me, insight emerges from looping through a familiar mix: writing, reading, thinking while walking, connecting thoughts, listening, consuming ideas, and then putting pen to paper again.

A busy, distracted mind has no energy to create. Distraction is perhaps the single biggest barrier to creativity. Writing helps anchor the mind.

But beyond writing, there is also a need for clear frameworks that help simplify and clarify thinking. It is only after one understands—by linking one idea to another—that it becomes possible to express what something really means, and make it simple and profound.

To show what this looks like in practice, consider the following example.

I was reading a book about early 20th-century expeditions to the South Pole. One striking detail was how explorers described the grand Antarctic mountains—massive, majestic—and yet often completely hidden behind fog and snow.

That sparked a thought. It is easy to become accustomed to seeing grand vistas like the Grand Canyon or the Himalayas—accessible places with seasons that allow for clear views. But in remote places like Antarctica and the Arctic, some of the most spectacular sights may remain unseen—not just because of their remoteness, but because they’re perpetually obscured by the elements.

There was a compelling fact—fog covers monumental mountains in Earth’s remotest places. And a wishful thought: that maybe some of the most beautiful vistas on Earth will never be seen or felt by humans.

At this point, it’s not yet insight. Just a curious observation. To make something of it, one has to write it down. Then review it. Then revisit it, using a framework like the one below.

This is where the earlier point about inhabiting a thought becomes real. The framework that follows is what allows a fleeting idea to evolve into something meaningful. It is a way of staying with the thought long enough for it to reveal something new—something that moves from noticing to insight.

This framework helps move from absorbing to seeing. From gathering to generating. From skimming past something to inhabiting it.

Here’s how it works.

First, to inhabit a thought, one needs to stay longer with it. Add more stillness between inputs. This is where reflection starts to deepen. Helpful questions include:

What is the emotional core of this?
Which part of me is responding to it?
What does it evoke in me?

Second, one has to make it strange again. Be childlike and indulge in some divergent thinking. Ask:

What would a child or a weird philosopher say about this?
What is this a metaphor for?
Where else does this pattern show up?

Third, one must zoom out and give attention more weight. Let the subconscious do its quiet work. Questions that help here:

What’s the larger truth being hinted at?
How can this be said more simply?

This is how uncommon connections form. And that’s where insight begins to surface.

Returning to the Antarctica example: the emotional core of the thought was longing—for beauty, for inspiration. The part that responded was the curious inner explorer. What it evoked was a kind of FOMO—not of missing out on trends, but missing out on inspiration.

Then, making it weirder—imagining that a philosopher might say that there is beauty out there, but it’s hidden—not because it doesn’t exist, but because it cannot be seen through the fog.

From a note about unseen Antarctic mountains, it became a metaphor about inspiration hidden by the fog of distraction.

That’s when the ideas clicked. There are things that remain out of reach not because they’re distant, but because attention is clouded. This is what people experience when they have writer’s block. Or creative plateaus. Because writing requires us to go to remote places - internally. Insight is often found in the places that are off the map.

What is the larger truth? To see the sublime, one must clear space. Remove the fog.

The mountains are there for the seeing—but only when one clears the fog of noise, haste, mental clutter and dares to venture to the edges where true insight lurks, can they finally come into view.

That is the power of inhabiting a thought—not grazing past it. Insight doesn't come from more inputs. It comes from deeper attention. And writing, more than anything, helps engage the whole of one’s consciousness.

The only caution: this should not become a mechanical exercise. One must not confuse deep thinking with sounding clever. Inhabiting thoughts for longer quietly dissolves that urge.