Fog

This thick fog lays out its gaseous tendrils, and nothing is to be seen clearly, not even yourself.

Wading through such blindness wears you so thin, you feel the exhaustion in your moist brows, but you continue to search for vision because you know it's all you have left.

So you twist and you turn, a silent dance of desperation with this deafening mist. At least that which embraces you in its thick blanket of nothingness keeps you warm with its wisps of heavy moisture....

Condensation derived from chaos... but it makes sense to you - it stands in your way, it envelopes you in nothingness it bars you from your own meaning.

Outside, all of it seems so random, so full of nothing but the fog comes up against you and leaves you falling, tripping on unseen crevices. In your heart it all seems so contrived... Fate, hiding its consciousness in the mist of circumstance, has pitted its greatest minions against you, and to struggle against this mantle is to create more delusion through your sweat.

Still you struggle, still you sweat, because you know vision lies outside of circumstance, and to let the mist control you would lead to a walk that falls upon itself... so you strive for something you know is true, yet you're not sure what this vision will be when you find it, but you know the weight of meaning is lighter than the weightlessness of being lost in the fog.