A World Enshrouded In Gentle Fog
The streets were swallowed by thick fog, the air carrying the scent of damp earth and faintly moldy paper. The glow of the streetlights was like warm butter—soft yet dim—unable to pierce the shadows lurking in the distance.
Someone whispered in your ear, “Walk slowly, the world is very safe.” The voice was clear, like hot tea poured from a porcelain cup, yet it carried a cold echo. You obeyed, stepping carefully on the slick stone slabs, each footfall muffled and consumed by the fog.
The air was filled with the scent of “goodness”—sweet as honey, yet sticky like glue, coating your fingertips and the corners of your mouth. You were taught to smile, stay quiet, and follow the rules, like a smoothed ceramic cup that rings fragile and clear when gently touched. Every time you tried to peek at the real world, the fog thickened, pressing down like icy hands on your shoulders.
Danger was tucked away, hidden behind the mist. Sharp winds howled around street corners, carrying the smell of burnt wood, yet no one warned you. The system, like warm honey, stuck to your hands, convincing you that order was safety, and unity was warmth. You believed that as long as you were a “good person,” the world wouldn’t hurt you—but each subtle tremor of the fog revealed the cracks beneath your feet, icy water seeping into your shoes.
Billboards flashed messages of “positivity, sunshine, and good energy,” but the words were like floating powder in the air, irritating your throat, never teaching you to recognize real danger. When you reached out, you could only touch the soft, hollow glow, never grasping anything solid.
To survive in the fog, you must hear the unusual breaths in the wind, sense the faint tremors beneath your feet, and brush your fingertips along the edges of shadows. You must learn to detect hidden cracks beneath frost, to smell the danger in the air—damp soil, ash, decaying leaves. Accept the existence of darkness, and treat the cold fog, the mist, and the shadows as teachers, not restraints.
Only then can you hold a spark in your palm, lighting your own path through the damp, cold fog, seeing clearly the sharpness and reality of the world.