The Black Fog

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(I wrote this when I was at the lowest point of my depression, just before I started my long road back from the edge.)

I'm keeping the door shut, not that it matters. I haven't bothered to lock it. Why should I? The fog cannot unlock doors; it doesn't need to. No. The fog creeps 'round the edges, through the keyhole, and under the sill.

No matter what skills I possess, I cannot stop the fog completely. By great and exhausting attention I can keep almost all of it out, but some slips by and gathers at my feet, swirling heavily around my ankles. The damn stuff will not dissipate. It gathers itself together; like water seeking the lowest point to form a puddle.

My neurons no longer talk for free. The fog has invaded and levied a tax upon all communication in my brain. There is a cost to thinking now, and I am near bankruptcy.

The invader has not conquered, but it rules (though not uncontested). The resources of my mind serve both sides of this battle, like medievel serfs paying homage and taxes to whatever lord controls the castle on the high ground.

The "me" that matters is a rebel in my own skull. I fear a pyrrhic victory. Whichever side emerges the victor; What will be left to rule?

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