It’s cold. Each exhalation pierces the frosty night air.
The street is damp. Moisture collects among the pores of the asphalt.
Each step takes you deeper into the thick air, closer to your destination.
The silence screams in your ear. A bull horn announcing your solo journey.
You can’t see where you’re going, the way is obscured. At times you can’t see your own hand in front of your face.
The hair on the back of your neck is at attention. Adrenaline, doubt, fear. You hear your heart beat, feel it beneath your clothes.
Everything in you is telling you to turn back, retreat to the safety of your home, of what’s known.
You don’t know what lays ahead, don’t know who you’ll meet, what obstacles will come your way. The path will curve, divert, fade. The fear of the unknown makes you want to stop, but the fear of standing still forces you on.
Forward into the abyss of the fog, your feet always moving, finding comfort in the uncomfortable, at ease with the pain and fear.
Confident in solitude.
A Toast: To the Fog