Older, but no wiser

Will this fog never clear? All around, indistinct outlines hide in the murk; visible, just, yet unidentifiable, no discernable pattern to the shifting, coalescing, diverging shapes moving at the edge of vision. Further afield, all is hidden, and might just as well not exist. Phantoms only, with no substance. Even an inch from my nose – yes, I can see things, but they’re isolated, disconnected from each other and from the wider world, their links dissolving into impenetrable greyness. Grope and stumble as I might, nowhere do I find a break in the mist which wraps its tendrils deeper and deeper into my brain, extinguishing synaptic sparks with its heavy dampness as it goes.