Fog

The wind sent a chill through my body. I looked up and saw heavy clouds piled up on the horizon through drifting fog. Bushes swayed like drunks, whistling in protest against the wind attempting to pull them out.
In the west outskirts the dying sun send golden spears coloring the fog to the blood color.
I put down my books, and put my fog glasses on to look at the far shadows of the city's mansions.
Only the tips of the tallest buildings could be seen at this distance, hazy and floating in a sea of mist.
Perpetual fog prevailed in the city. According to my father there has always been, and will always be fog, this is the reality of our world. My father was cynical and practical person that does not believe in the legend about how the fog will vanished when the 'enlightened' will come.

As a child I believed in this legend. I dreamed that one day the 'enlightened' will enter the city through the bridge. The fog will clear up and the sun will shine in a crystal blue sky.

At this hope of mine, my father muttered contemptuously: "blue sky? Why not red or yellow? Be realistic son, the sky will always be gray. '
Several windows were lit by lanterns illuminating the fog around them with an aura of yellow light. For some time I felt the growing burden.
"Ami, your problem is that you read too much, ignore this feeling" Yotam told me. Yotam always ignores problems. This was a mistake to confide in him.
"Stop reading and have a life" Yotam said and with that note he conclude the subject and walked away.

Now I think maybe Yotam is right... no, I can not stop reading, and I can not stop thinking either. A dangerous combination, reading and thinking. A fatal combination. Why I can not be an idiot and happy as Yotam?

At home the crunch feeling in my chest where even harder. The Walls all around me seems like blocks of ice closing in on a ship caught in the Arctic, and the same ship collapsing against ice pressure, I think the walls are closing in on me slowly but steadily making breathing difficult.

I had to escape to the free open field. There, isolated by the fog I felt better.
Now, looking at the flames ignited by the setting sun and reflected from the windows of the tall buildings, the city seemed on fire. I was the only survivor.

Yes, active imagination is a curse.

I lowered my eyes back to the book. Now the letters blared by the waning light.

One could say I'm running away from reality to other worlds, and probably be right.
The book in my hands describes a sunny country with no fog, just like the legend of the 'enlightened'. Only brave men will dare leave the city for this journey across the bridge to reach this marvelous place.
Everyone told me that there is no land without fog, but deep down I asked 'Why not?'.
I want to believe.