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The Fog

Writer's picture: Daniel SieversDaniel Sievers

I reach out and touch it. It leaves moisture on my fingers, tears on my skin. I twirl to see every view around me, but am blind from every angle. This density has swallowed me whole, and a sense of being trapped takes over. Soon the moisture covers every inch of me as if every pore in my body cries tears of sorrow. How did I get here? Why am I alone?

My instinct takes over as I decide the best way to escape is to crawl under it, so I kneel in the mud. I feel the coolness of the ground, and a shiver runs through me, but I am not deterred. I move forward, but the white clouds hinder my sight. I crouch lower until my belly is touching the ground, and I army crawl through the mystical whiteness, but I make no progress. It becomes apparent there is no way under, so I rise and look above.

The skyline isn’t visible, but somehow it must be there somewhere, so I decide to climb over to freedom. I reach around until I feel solidness next to me then hoist myself onto it and start the slow ascension. The hours tick away. My muscles become sore, and the ache in my head from the long tedious process diminishes my hope. It becomes apparent there is no way over the veil that covers my life.

By now my body is covered in tears, and my muscles can no longer withstand the grip of the solidness, and I let go. I fall and the air that brushes against my cold wet skin sends a tremor through my body. I slam to the ground, and the air leaves my lungs. I wonder if I might perish from the fall, but soon my breath returns, though more painful than before. I stare into the white fluff around me, contemplating whether it is worth standing. Regardless of the negatives that float through my brain, I decide to stand once again facing the fog before me.

Then it occurs to me that perhaps someone is waiting on the other side to help me, so I reach into the whiteness watching as my hand disappears. I wiggle my fingers and move them around hoping on hope someone will take a hold. Nothing…nothing greets me. I pull my hand back and feel the moisture on my fingertips and realize they too cry a tear of loneliness.

I look forward unable to see, but knowing somewhere there is an end to the fog. There must be, so I step forward into it, blinded and uncertain, but I walk nonetheless ignoring the tears of my body. I walk for hours…for days…for weeks. I walk alone.

Soon the fog thins and a ray of light comes through. The end is near. I become more determined and move faster and soon I’m bursting into the sunlight. I feel the warmth hit me, and the wetness covering me dries up. I raise my hands to the sky and continue forward until the fog fades from sight, and there basking in the sun are those who I reached for, but I could not find.

“Where were you? I was lost and alone and you did not come.”

“We couldn’t leave the sunlight of our lives for the gloom and doom of yours. Please forgive us. We are not that brave.”

I shake my head at the sadness of their statement and look at each of them, stopping on the last in line. “Where is Beth?” I ask having realized one of them was missing.

“In the fog finding her way,” they said and pointed to where I had emerged.

I look and the white clouds are thick and the sadness oozes from them. I want to turn away and bask in the sunlight with the others, but something stops me. Perhaps if I could be brave and help those lost in the fog, others would follow and we’d never walk alone, so I walk away from those I had relied on…those that failed me. I reach the edge of the fog and feel my body shiver with fear. My heart beats louder in my ears, and the sadness runs down every inch of me, attacking my soul, but I stay where I am. She shouldn’t walk alone. She needs a hand.

So into the fog I go, and I reach.

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