Some days, I just don’t fit. I don’t meld with my friends, and I can’t concentrate. The wall
behind me is shattering like a fragile sheet of glass and I go tumbling head over heels into the
exact place I was before, but instead of being able to reach out and touch things, I’ve been
removed. Now I’m a watcher. When I walk through the hallways, I could pass right through a
person. That’s how intangible I am. On these days, I could tear my throat to pieces with a scream
and it would echo back at me.
If I had to give a name to the place, it would probably be the foggy room. It changes when
I leave one room and enter another. It’s a carbon copy of the room I’m in, but things feel less.
Like a sensation being torn through thorns gets pieces shredded off of it, so once it emerges on
the other side, it’s been stripped away.
I could live in the foggy room if I weren’t so lonely there. Sometimes the fog is actually
toxic and it sprinkles a breath with dust that makes me choke. I start to cry because of the pain
and the coughing, so I realize that I can’t stay in there forever. It’s just so inconvenient that I can
never seem to break the wall back into the real room again. I have to wait until someone else
does it for me.
My experiences with the foggy room have been polarizing at best and excruciating at
worst. I don’t recommend it if you can help it. The thing is, I never can. I could try not making a
big deal out of it, but I can’t help but wonder if anyone knows what I mean. If you do, I have to
say that’s sad to hear. I wish I had known so someone could keep you company.
