Short Story: THE FOG MAN


Description: The man of the fog was used to squeezing until he disappeared.


Submitted by: Momò

The fog man was used to squeezing in until he disappeared.

He had been traveling far and wide and never actually returned. Among the paragraphs of the thousand stories left uncompleted, he sought his way: the one that led to the sun. It was a leather notebook and a pair of holed pockets. It was the innermost thoughts of all human beings. It was oblivion.

This, however, he did not understand.

The fog man had not always been a man. First, he was air, then fire, then dog, tree, and tempest. Now the past was only a distant dot in the grand and intricate jumble of existence.

He had learned to forget. Later he forgot that he had forgotten. Finally, he became the very essence of forgetting.

Incapable of clinging to time, he stood by, watching as everything gradually escaped his exhausted old eyes. He folded back into uncertainty, like a sheet of paper or a lie.

It was then that he saw her: the fog. Sweet companion in the bitter emptiness of being without contours, she held him in a warm embrace, which gave him shivers.

He realized that as a single being he was not worth much; so he held on to her.

He loved her with all himself, the one who was everything, without being nothing any longer. She had slipped into him - you know, right under the surface. It had dug a tunnel straight into his troubled soul. And he had let her.

It happened not out of fragility or lack of common sense. On the contrary, it was the considered resolution of one who had everything to lose, because at that fateful instant he chose to be, simply, the fog man.

The fog man was used to squeezing in until he disappeared. He walked groping in the blindness of his inconsistency. On the leather notebook, he was inexorably writing down all the silences, perpetually seeking his answers. All answers. He was not a hero, not even an inept. He was the oblivion.

This, however, he did not understand.


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