Whispers. The whispers are his guide. Without them, he is lost. Without them, he stumbles in the dark fog and knows not what they are. The husks of his past. The skeletons of his plans. They control him like a puppet, even beyond the fog.
The fog. Sometimes I think the fog is safer. For him. For me. But then the whispers. They live in the fog and leech off of him. They feed off the doubt. The fear. The mistrust. They get stronger the more they control him. They are strong. They control him, even on the outside.
Outside. The whispers give him words for the outside. No one notices the whispers. They’re drowned out by the words. The words which are empty. They’re an act when spoken and depressant when held. He believes himself empty.
Empty. The whispers’ words don’t fill him. He’s already full of light. The whispers’ words fog up the light. He doesn’t need the words, but the words make him feel safe. They’re a plan in a world of uncertainty. He doesn’t need the plan, but a plan is safe.
Safe. He put his safety in the hands of the whispers. Where have the whispers brought him but where he is right now. They don’t know any better than he. The past knows less than the present. The present is alight with faith, if only he would let go of the fog; mute the whispers; listen to the truth.