Fog. What a misunderstood phenomenon. Always scary, always evil, always hiding something bad. But that's not true, is it?

I know fog. I am, in many ways, more like fog than I am human. I, too, know what it's like to be misunderstood.

People look at me and think scary, evil. Bad. People see danger. But I'm not more dangerous than fog itself.

Is it fair, to blame someone because of how others might take advantage of them? Is it fair to hate a dog, because someone might train them to bite?

Fog isn't evil. She's kind, her gentle hands cradling my face, covering my eyes. "Don't look," she whispers, "the evils that lay beyond."

Fog is motherly, a moist pressure all around your body, a hug from a being that has no body. You can try keeping her away from you, but you would only cause swirling air currents. When Fog is determined, there's no stopping her.

I wish I could be fog. No fear, no anger, no hunger and no cold. Fog gives, but never needs. I am stoppable, afraid and hungry. And others, people I wish I could know, I could learn about, I could learn from, they all avoid me, fear me. I am, for them, the Thing lurking in the Fog.

The sweet Fog doesn't reject me. She never would. She accepts everyone, even if they don't fit anywhere else. She accepts me.

Maybe I am the thing they fear, lurking beyond view, among the fog.