The mist is thick and grey, and tantalizing things within it dart back and forth. You can’t quite see them, but you can’t quite not see them either, always teasing just on the edge of perception. Like a thought, teasing its way in the back of your mind, not daring to come to the forefront. Staying in the back and taunting you, mocking you, daring you. There is something . . . something you need to think about . . . but if you do, you must face it.
Don’t look for the sun. He won’t come here. For all of His strength, He is impotent when the mists close in, lost just like any other traveler, adrift in a sea of grey and stripped of all power. Where is your scepter now, sun? You can feel the fog coming down and settling over your mind. Can you feel it? One by one, the bright colors disappear until they are only a long forgotten dream, if that. Your world is the grey world now, the place where final form has not yet materialized.
|Wrestling with the endless mist.|
Walk along the shores of the ocean . . . the shores of your mind . . . it doesn’t matter. It’s the same thing. Call out if you want. The sun won’t hear you. He’s about as far away as you can imagine, and then farther than that. But go ahead and try. Exhaust yourself calling out into the mist.
As for me, I’ll save my energy and bide my time. It can only permeate my consciousness if I let it. I am inclined to present a puzzling reflection back to the grey fog, and if it should permeate my consciousness, should I let it, imagine its surprise when it finds itself lost in a world of even more fog, even more grey, even more mist with my own creatures darting back and forth. I am a match for anything.