“The fog is so thick today in this god forsaken place,” she thought as soon as she opened her eyes. Sadness and loneliness are like old friends, you can always count on them. This is a different landscape than yesterday but she understands its ways only too well. Yesterday, the sun had broken through the clouds, presaging something auspicious. Days like yesterday made her feel an atom of hope. She felt she could reach out her hands and find a forgotten book or some special object that could make her happy. Like an author writing her own words, she felt a sudden trepidation: she would conjure up an alternative story. Things don’t need to be the same every day. Everything could be different, “I will rewrite my story”, she tried to convince herself.
But today the fog penetrated her pores, invaded her thoughts and lodged in her brain like a viral infection taking over her body. Why, she thinks. Why do I allow this fog to creep in and be the protagonist? You don’t belong to this plot. You are uninvited.
She felt helpless.
She abandons herself to the fog. “Let it do its harms, let it stare at me with its hungry vicious eyes and crawl in like a cat, silently, little by little”, she says, almost defiantly. She is tired of fighting the fog. She is giving up. “If I don’t fight you any more, where will you lead me? Will you finish your job and lacerate me to pieces? Will you wrap me in your dark claws until you muffle my soul to eternal silence?”
This is all probably fictional. And I am probably the author who is inventing this story. I will therefore refuse to submit her to this plot line. She will have to wake up tomorrow and pretend that today was just another bad day. That the fog had crept in uninvited in a dark alley that did not belong to her. Tomorrow, I will write that she will have the strength to reinvent a different plot line for her day. I will rewrite her tomorrow. She will open her eyes to a different day. The fog will have moved on.
arizona-me 