The fog twists and swirls around me, blurring the line between my feet and the ground. Nothing feels solid, nothing seems quite there. I wonder how I ended up here, after seeing so clearly...
I want to leave, but that would mean I'd have to move away from the one spot I think I know and strike out into the greyness. It is cold and I am alone and afraid. I can hear a Voice, low and clear and sure, even through the fog. It beckons me toward it, offering reassurance and comfort, if only I would come and follow. I want to follow, know I'd follow wherever it lead - but qualified by a constant 'if'. If the fog first broke I and I could clearly see where I was headed. If I could be guaranteed that there would be no danger of new or further pain. But now, in this dimness, chill and damp, unsure of footing and way... I do want to follow, but that means I'd have to strike out into the unknown. What if I fell, I know not how far I would fall before coming to a bottom, in this confusion of the senses where I am not even sure of where my feet really are. And still the Voice, my sought-after, wept-for Love pleads for me and beckons...
"He'll come to me...He'll not leave me here..." My pride is my prop, my cane of black by which I feel my way to nowhere. I can see nothing beyond it's tip. The fog whirls and catches at my feet. I turn 'round and 'round seeking on my own for a clearing of the murk, a way in which to wander. Instead, it draws tighter, and the Voice grows a little faint. My heart aches at the realization. Peering through the thickening mistiness, a red candle flame flickers and dances, now hidden, now clear. He has not left me, but it is I who must come to Him, not He to me. Will I throw down my black cane which guides nothingness and despair? Will I be able to take the risk of walking in this fog that at times obscures even the red lamp and seems to dim the Light?

The fog catches and swirls as I lift my foot...