What is left of me?


It feels like morning here.
Everything is wrapped in some sort of fog, present but still out of reach, no matter how far I walk.

Space is watered down with light thatÕs watered down with tiny drops of water.

Light is everywhere, softly: the air is a liquid mirror and all I see is shades of silver with no shadow.

The sounds of my steps arise flapping like wings and then return, muffled and trailed, conjuring against my senses.

They seem to crash onto no surface as they bounce back, fighting their way through the fog to fetch me the spare shards of light they cross on their path.

I can hear my steps, I can hear my clothes brushing up against themselves and I can hear my breath getting heavier.
Other than that, all I can hear is silence.

It sounds wet and breathes dry as I walk my way onwards.

- upwards

The ground leans towards me as I walk my way upwards.

- climb

The steeper the step, the higher the ground, the more I grow eager to get there.


Meanwhile time unfolded.

It cleared, it spread all over in much needed rest as if it knew its own time was over.

In spite of timeÕs absence my climb gets impatient.

I make my way through sheer nothing, my load getting heavier with the pressure.

With no intention but direction, my thoughts scrape the surface and burst before coming to be.

IÕve never known such focus before.

What is left of me?
All I know is I'm heading towards the answer.