The Fog

I held my arms crossed together as I slowly, reluctantly trudged forwards. The space around me was obscured in a shadowy fog. It created a thick enough cover so that I couldn’t tell how far away the horizon was. However, in patches it showed just enough of the outside world. The way it wavered, it distorted what I saw. Within the haze I couldn’t determine what was safe and what was a threat. I couldn’t tell who was friend or who was foe. When seen in one light they appeared trusting, speaking softly, touching gently. In another they growled, clawing at my skin, everything decaying under their touch. Sometimes the fog smelled sweet, filling my lungs with a breath of clarity. Sometimes it squeezed the life from them, glaring into my subconscious as I struggled to think, to breathe.

There were times I wanted to stop. I didn’t want to look back at the memories that I no longer knew were good or bad. I didn’t want to look forward at the future that couldn’t cement a promise of fortune or disaster. Every time one of the horrors pushed me to the floor I wanted to stay there. 

Lie down and sleep. 

Ignore all of it.

Some things I just couldn’t ignore.

The fog would cry out with recurring voices I’d come to remember. These voices had always been the ones to pipe up after a whirlwind of nightmares harassed me. I’d found solace in their reassurance, despite struggling to trust that they wouldn’t just distort into something else.

I found myself feeling guilty whenever I even touched upon the subject on sleeping forever. I didn’t want to disappoint the voices.

But it was okay. I found ways to cope. The nightmares refused to cease, so I waited until the nice dreams slept and I surged onwards. They’d come for me in full swing the harder I pushed back. I allowed myself to be enveloped by a thousand hands trying all at once to tear the lungs from my chest. I’d endure it, out of sight, alone, until it was over. For each twinge I’d try to recall a fragment of something, anything one of the good dreams had said to me. In retaliation I would attack myself, lashing out wildly. I displayed control. 

Despite how intense these moments became, they eventually became less frequent. The light within the fog began to stay brighter for longer. But it still shuts off, every now and again, isolating me. I can endure it though. I’ve become accustomed. I don’t feel vulnerable anymore though. I steel myself even though I still feel weathered by it afterwards. I don’t hope that one day I’ll come out of it clean.

Because the fog never clears.