Fog

Wading forward, eyes as good as closed.  Not truly wading, although it certainly seemed that way.  Swimming through the fog, perhaps being a more accurate word, although still an entirely flawed description of the movement.  Really, it was simply walking.  Walking in confusion, walking nobody knew where, knowing only what was being left behind, the terrors that were escaped.

No shapes could be distinguished, no destination the least bit construed.  Ultimately, it was a passage into nothingness itself.  For all the fog, there may have been no source and no destination, no location and no time.  As far as anyone and anything was concerned, there was no path, no journey, no passage.  Nothing happened, merely infinite identical motions through infinite identical space.

The defining characteristic of fog was precisely that--the lack of a defining characteristic of any sort.  It simply was.  It wasn't really white, it didn't feel overly heavy or thick or damp, it wasn't a presence of cold so much as an absence of warmth.  Fog didn't mean anything.  Acting as an opposite of a black hole, it was a colorless vastness spreading its nothingness over the entirety of the world.

It was thick and deep and desolate.  Nothing held meaning and nothing was felt.  It was neither pleasant nor unpleasant.  It existed.  That is all.  It did not pretend, it did not lie, it did not hide.  The fog was a matter so simple it was complex and so complex it rapidly became very, very simple.  In the end it came down to everything in the world, but so could be expressed as an entity of one.  Nothing.