Swimming Through The Fog: Prose

swimming through the fog is surreal. it’s icy cold, but not the type that gives you goosebumps or makes the hair on your hand stand up.

all around me are water droplets— suspended in the air, encasing dust and smoke. when you think about it, it’s like a magic trick. mother nature’s magic trick.

i can barely see two feet ahead of me.

but, for once, not knowing what’s to come comforts me. because all my life i’ve been taught that the clock is ticking, and time’s running out, but being suspended in the water droplets feels like i’ve been suspended in time. like a wave paused in mid air. there’s a tentative ticking, waiting for it to crash. but it doesn’t.

so, i relax.

i don’t know if i’m moving or not. and even if i am, it all looks the same.

i’m falling asleep for the first time in eleven years. i can hear music from the carnival of the dead playing in the distance. but that music, i resolve to forget. because i am comfortable in the silence now.

there are patches of black and white.

black and white. black and white.

i wish the world was black and white. but then, it wouldn’t be so beautiful.

am i willing to trade beauty for simplicity? diversity for one dimensionality?

i don’t know.

(maybe that’s why i find this so comforting. because i know there’s nothing bad that can come. but then, i know there’s nothing good that can come of it either, if i go on forever.

over time, the fog will fill my lungs, seep into my skin and water down my blood and i’ll become one with the fog. over time, the waves will yearn to embrace the ocean.)

i think i have my answer.

it’s time to swim out of the fog. into the light, or into the darkness.

whatever comes, i’ll take it.

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