When I clear the fog, I will again understand the silence of your gaze, the hesitant insecurity of your hands, and your believer-hopes in me. When I clear the fog my rebellious body will be harmonious, my muscles will obey my brain and the halo of madness that modulates my actions will succumb, melted by order. Yes, when the fog clears, my voice will dismantle the treble, my eyes will distort the shadows, and my ears will resurrect silence. When I clear the fog, I will again be who I was and I do not remember, and mist and tiresome grey will become light and colour, poetry and present, hope and passion. My universe awaits me, just a step away from the fog.
# When The Fog Clears The fog clears like a secret told, like hands unclenching what they hold. The world steps back into itself— sharp edges, familiar shapes returning from the nowhere where fog dissolves all boundaries. A tree emerges, then another. The distant hill finds its shadow. Distance becomes distance again, no longer this white erasure, this gentle theft of sight. We stand where we stood before, but changed by what we couldn't see— the fog has left its touch on us, a coolness in the folds of sleeves, a moisture in the hair. And though the world is clear now, we carry the fog inside, that softness, that suspension, that hour when nothing was certain and everything was possible. The sun breaks through, warm and ordinary. But something lingers— the memory of blindness, the knowledge that clarity is always temporary, that fog will come again.
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