A man stumbles his way through the fog to find his path towards the Sun, the remaining light in the dense grey. As the light scatters into fragments, each piece eludes the man in his journey for the one true Sun.
This fog, this immense cloud engulfing the forest. All this has amounted to a clutter of makeshift paths of my own doing. I've been wandering through this forest seemingly for years, but I do not truly understand the concept of time anymore. My wanderings have brought me across long distances, through biting winds piercing the bones and humid airs threatening to prune my skin. I have seen so much, yet I remember little of it; only vague details remain as I forge ahead to find the destined path that will rid me of these cold conditions.
I learned to draw my own marks upon this draining world in hopes to remember my travels, perhaps to connect my memories with a physical location. This thought surfaced rather recently, and now there is a faint warmness hanging in the air due to its upbringing. Instead of aimless wandering, I have resulted to a finer direction lead by logical thinking. In the short time I have honed my edge, I have gained more progress than I have ever done so in the past. The warmth is faint, but the feeling is almost as if I am already basking in the glow of the Sun, letting its arms wrap around me in a warm, gentle manner. The small taste trickling down my senses eases the pain of travel and leaves me longing for the genuine source. I make it a point to squeeze every drop of energy stored within the sinewy muscle fibers to reach this complete sensation before death falls upon me.