figure in the fog

Your eyes trace the movement of the irises in front of you, and there’s a vague sense of familiarity. Distant, but there. Like a face you know from a dream. You blink and the image copies the motion, tilting its head and baring its teeth like some distorted game of Simon Says. The name of the figure rests of the tip of your tongue but the second you go to speak, it fades into mist.

Who is this.

You give up on answers and focus on showers. Moving through the air, you’re sure it didn’t feel like this yesterday. What did it feel like yesterday? What did yesterday feel? Walking as though you’re wading through quicksand, each step sinking further and further, you make it through the glass door. You turn the tap and see the water hit your skin, but it takes seconds before you register the heat. It burns..but it’s distant. Like you’re experiencing it through someone else. You give up, twisting the tap and surrendering to the cold water. You know it’s cold because you can see the goose bumps rise on the arm in front of you. At least this you can be certain of.

The mirror is fogged up and this makes you feel calm. Things have been too sharp and too blurry at the same time. Like the dizzying sensation of standing up quickly, things are both spinning and still. But the blur invokes a numbness, and here you are safe. You are not reminded of that eerie figure, not reminded of anything but haze. This is where you exist now.

The days goes by both quickly and slowly. By now, things once opposite have merged into an infinite canvas of grey. Sure of nothing except that you are sure of nothing. Where does time go once it’s finished. What happened to that figure in the fog.

You’re staring out a window watching the blur of cars race by. People always going, going, no one ever stopping, how does everything shift and meld so quickly. What happened to that figure in the fog.

There’s a cup of tea in your hands that you don’t remember making. But no one else lives here so it must’ve been you. It’s cold now but you drink it anyway because you don’t remember the last time you ate. Don’t remember much these days. Where do memories go once they’re made. What day is it.

What happened to that figure in the fog.

Months may have passed but you’re not really sure. Time seems to exist in everyone’s head but yours. You wake up everyday doing the same damn thing sometimes it doesn’t even feel like you’re living. Someone else is controlling your body, making it work, making it eat. You’re tired but can’t sleep; opposites that never meet.

How long has it been since I was

That figure in the fog.

By em

a sometimes poet, sometimes painter, always philosopher

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