I don’t know how long I’ve been walking through the fog. The hardest part is keeping my wits about me when there’s no present use for them. This day is like every other day. I walk forward, pressing at the thick air ahead of me, and it pushes back. It is not difficult to overcome the resistance. It is thick and soupy and clings to my exposed skin like a corpse’s tattered shroud. And yet, at any given moment, pushing through is the easiest thing. It’s funny, really.
The day of walking has come to an end. I can tell by how the wind smells. Grassy when it’s time to start walking, briny when it’s time to stop, with a blunt nothing in between. I sit on the damp, endless cobblestones. I pull a journal and pen from my pocket. This journal has been with me since I first stepped into the fog. It is my greatest respite and my worst enemy. I think I am almost done with it. There are, as far as I can tell, two more pages after this to fill with my brokenness. I cradle it in my arms. I have thought it was almost done before.
Once time, I realized every page was folded on itself, that I would have to fill twice as much.
One time, I realized I had to fill out the back of every page as well, that I would have to fill twice as much.
One time, I flipped back and found I had started writing in the middle, that I would have to fill twice as much.
When it is full, I can finally depart. I know it will be soon. I feel just as I did 4 months ago. Nothing has changed. The fog remains. There will be a me, maybe, that is free of this, that is grateful for my pain. But that is not me, is it? I am defined in this relentless, eternal moment. When it ends, so will I, in a sense. My skin is sallow and gray where the fog has found purchase on my body. It will always be so, even if the skin’s pallor returns. Do you see? I am sacrificing myself for my own flesh and blood. I will never escape. I will only be granted merciful release. Please remember me. Please cry for me. I beg you, know my pain. I am suffering. I love you.
It’s been a few days into this trek through the fog. It’s starting to drag on me a little. But I know that it’s important! After all, what’s a little pain now? I can take it. I’m strong. Really, I’m not sure what to put in this journal. I just have to fill it up, one day at a time. Should be done in just a few months!
I look once more at the journal in my hand and then the fog before me. I smile defiantly and step forwards. This will be a piece of cake.