Behind the Fog

I drop. Not with a pop. Not pushed into it. But  rolled into it, slowly. One image fading into the next, each turning progressively hazier. Blurring both in dimensions and verity.


And then, bit by bit, frame by frame, it regains focus. Sharp. Bright. Crisp.


It plays behind my lids. Wheeling out stories of its own accord.


It showed me light yesterday. It showed me fear the day before. Maybe it will show me love today. And acceptance. A Laughing girl . A warm hug. A long lost friend. My dead nana. I love it. It is unanticipated. I could wake up feeling unsettled or warm and fuzzy. No evident cause.


Or maybe there is.


Maybe it shows me what my conscious self cannot espouse. What my mind is too afraid to embrace, my heart leaks that out under my lids. It’s calling me out to become stronger. Accept that which makes me happier. Not be practical. Not do the ‘right’ thing. Not bend under what is expected.

Maybe it shows me what my mind thinks is too meloncholic to relive. Things and people that are gone, voids so huge it takes my breath away to think.

Maybe it  shows me what my wakeful heart is too afraid to relive. The forced slap. The ugly bruises. The broken sense of self. Maybe it wants me to heal.


I’ll go to this room. And one day perhaps I’ll see the room without closing my eyes.