In Dead of

[u/TazzaKa]

In the dead of night. When fog prepares for morning. Trees hang their branches low. No one is there to see the miracle of light. No one shall be the one who knows the sensation of boredom under a tree. The one person who thinks about yesterday when tomorrow already hunts them. Boredom envelops the tree, where secrets lie in the air. Forgotten, written in words that were spoken. The fog rises, mixes the secrets into one. Just to spit them out.

A tornado.

A word stings and bleeds. A wound that can't be healed. Ask time, ask if it knows. The sensation of boredom. I'm sure time knows. Where light lingers just enough for us to notice. The fog rules over the air and coldness. And when the world asks, tell them only the fog and I will know.

Silence.

A whisper is not silence. A whisper is the movement of fog, which we mistake for a promise. And when the birds die, they will no longer sing to overthrow the fog. Boredom is the sensation of light striking through fog.

Some would call it the light at the end of the tunnel.

When time and I know that it's just the hope we get so we don't think to think. So we don't decide for fog, for light. I want to hope time forgets too. I hope we can change the direction of the world now. I want to learn how to think before time and the sun blink us away.

Hear the birds sing? In the faraway trees? Enjoy the sensation of melodies coming through. Before the fog takes them. Before light turns the notes into ash. And after you hear them, yell back at them. So they know to flee before they fall.

The fog rises; be prepared for the morning to come.

The fog rises; it rules every early light.

Just to slowly fade into the air.

And let light take over.

I kiss the fog goodbye,

wish the light luck.

And then the sun loses to fog.

At the end, in the dead of night, the fog rises.

Boredom and time forget why they were under the tree.

Hear the whispers?

Run.

[u/Cromer1000]

Cool

[u/TazzaKa → u/Cromer1000]

Very cool🪄

[u/WhatKadambarisees]

There’s something haunting about the way you’ve written hope here, as though even the light is something we convince ourselves to believe in just to endure the fog. The imagery of the birds, the tree, and time makes the whole piece feel like a world caught between wanting to believe and being afraid to. “A whisper is not silence. A whisper is the movement of fog, which we mistake for a promise” is such a striking thought. It makes you wonder how many things we mistake for promises simply because we need them to be. I especially love how the fog returns, almost as if nothing ever truly leaves, it only changes shape. This stayed with me longer than I expected. 🖤