Once the fog is gone.

Strange shadows folding, drifting on a chilled blanket.
As if it ever was thus.

Emotions folding, too. Swaying. Sometimes almost imperceptible. At other times, like a torrent, paralysing the will.

It is only for a time; for a season. As the first buds of spring build to a crescendo of colour, this mist will rise.

And you will be again. You see the signs. Small at first, like those buds. Notice things: that call from a friend; the call to create from deep and redeeming urges.

The freshness of the morning and even the occasional fogs carry hope and renewal.

Nor is it some Nepenthean dystopia of forgetfulness. Nor some Hollywoodesque sanitation.
For the memories become clearer. They somehow find new meaning.
And though there may occasionally be a mist in the morning, the sun will rise.

You will rise.