There’s a fog hanging thick around my mind. All I can see is the negative, the already done, the perfection of others. Nothing is new, nothing is exciting, and nothing is different. I try to come through the fog and yet it clings to me as if I were its very lift source. And perhaps I am. Perhaps the fog was created by my own mind.
Everything appears before me with a slight grey skew and the vibrant colors I saw before have disappeared from sight. the electricity in the air is dull and my senses are reserved for nothing in particular. It is as if the world has lost its magic, when in reality my mind has fallen asleep to the magic that is around it.
Each day appears like the last. It starts the same and it ends the same. The clock ticks on and the fog pulsates with a never ending life. It thins here and there to allow a glimpse into the outer world, but it remembers its place and returns to the disorienting cloud it was before. Nothing shakes it, nothing pry’s it from my skin and eyes.
Every piece of life is tampered by the fog, it makes the exciting boring and the mundane a drag. The best ideas are lost on me before they simply bounce of the fog which reminds them of the reality and practicality of it all. Excuses are made from the stand point in which I sit in order to distract people from the reality that my mind is simply lacking the originality.
This idea and that, one after another, a remake of one thing and a copy of another. The style fades and the fog blackens with every new frustration. It is strengthened by mistakes and low opinions. Negative thoughts stick inside the mass, bouncing from one side to the other until a frenzy is created.
One can only imagine what it must have been like before the fog set in. Before the creativity was stifled. Before the original inspiration was gone. Before one began to walk in circles because the path they were walking is not hidden behind a veil of vapor. A thick veil with not hand to lift it and no breeze to move it away from the eye.
Day after day after day after day after day after day. Until the days turn to weeks and dread sets in that the weeks will then turn into months. Before one knows it will it become years? Is this fog here to stay and torment the mind for the rest of eternity? Will every waking moment be a struggle between inspiration and pessimism?
Hope seems a far distant light whose beams are not strong enough to make it through to the eye. Relief seems an impossible dream that is too distant to grab on to. And complete remedy becomes an impossible thought as the mind is shrouded in darkness without any kind of visibility.
Is this the reality I must deal with? Will I henceforth and forevermore be tangled with the dark swirls of fog? The future is uncertain and the days go by with a speed matched only by the slowest of snails. The ideas come and they never amount to much of anything and the question remains, is this where I have come to stay?
Until Next Time,