Through the Fog

Category: Mind & Memory

  • Memory

    Memory is a quiet thief,

    slipping through the halls of my mind

    collecting pieces of who I was

    and leaving them in places

    I can’t always reach.

    Some nights they return—

    soft as dust,

    sharp as glass—

    faces I loved,

    moments I meant to keep,

    the echoes of laughter

    that no longer belongs to now.

    I touch them carefully,

    afraid they’ll fade again

    if I breathe too deep.

    But memories never stay

    the way you saved them.

    They shift,

    they dim,

    they soften at the edges

    until they’re more feeling than fact,

    more ache than image.

    Still—

    I hold them close,

    these fragments that made me,

    these ghosts of gentler days.

    Because even when they hurt,

    they remind me

    that I lived.

    And that I loved

    hard enough

    to remember.

  • The Shape of Silence

    It’s the echo of every truth you never dared to speak, 

    a weight that settles in the hollow of your chest

    like something carved from grief

    and sharpened by silence.

    It crawls along the inside of your skull,

    slow and deliberate,

    leaving claw marks in places

    you swore nothing could reach.

    It fills the rooms of your mind

    with a stillness so absolute

    it feels like a warning.

    Breathing becomes a memory,

    a thing you used to know how to do

    before this presence learned your shape

    and wrapped itself around you

    with the cold precision

    of something that doesn’t need to rush.

    This isn’t a blanket—

    it’s a shroud.

    It doesn’t warm;

    it constricts.

    It tightens until your pulse forgets its rhythm

    and your ribs forget their purpose.

    It settles deeper than fear could ever go,

    into the marrow,

    into the places no light has touched in years.

    You can’t see it—

    that’s the cruel part.

    It hides just beneath the threshold of vision,

    drowning you in a darkness

    that feels personal,

    intentional,

    intimate.

    And somehow,

    it knows you’ll let it stay.