The Man In The Fog
The fog layered upon everything. The swings and the park benches turned into faint shapes; the sky was blotted out. I walked along the concrete path, but I couldn't see its end — each step only revealed the next.
As I pushed through the mist I saw shadows — they were birds, creatures that seemed unaware of the fog as they settled themselves on a section of the sidewalk. I walked closer, but their heads turned. The once peaceful group had been disturbed. They screeched and leapt into the grey surround. I realized that I wasn't like them. I simply couldn't hide within mist — something pushed me to move forth.
I traveled deeper into the fog. Soon, the shape of a door emerged. I pressed my hand against it and went inside: a small restroom, no life here except for myself and the moth circling about the glow of a fading bulb. It was slightly warmer in here than it was outside. I went over to one of the sinks and sat my backpack down, unzipped it and pulled out my toothbrush. This was my life and the life I was going to have in the coming years. Even if I grew old and found my own place like the birds I would still be held to the thing within that bellows against the fog. Maybe I could have made myself into something. The faces of my family still clamored in my brain, but I was born into this world a wanderer. I spat into my sink, closed up my backpack and headed back outside where shadows writhed within the grey.
29 May 2015