Fog-Walk Between Worlds

Morning fog came in low, dense, and indifferent.

Fog softens the edges of everything, even pain.
The kind that doesn't care what you're carrying.

I've walked through despair.
Not the poetic kind.
The real kind,
waking is punishment.

Every morning asks, Why stay?

The only answer I could give:

I haven't tried everything.

I didn't go out to heal
I needed to move.

Movement the only prayer
my body understands.

Stillness lets the fog inside.

Out there, the wind was cold, clean,
and I felt something shift.

Not joy.
Not peace.

Presence.

The kind that sneaks in sideways
when you stop trying so hard.

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* peer reflections: not medical or therapy advice. *