Smoke of Mind

Adam was hit by the smoke the moment he noticed it, thick, wavy strands that slowly were moving between the cracks of his awareness. It was not the foul type that stung the eyes or asphyxiated the lungs. This one was different, not real. It was soft, like it had consciousness, and it glided into his mind, obliterating the true world like an opium haze. As he attempted to concentrate, he blinked. The room's faint light cast long, twisted shadows across the pummeled walls.

As he attempted to remember how he arrived here, his fingers jerked wildly out of control. Had he slept? Was he dreaming? The all-pervading mist wrapping around his senses smeared and smeared the boundaries of memory. A voice slid through the fog. "You've awakened." Adam spun around, but his action was slow, as if swimming in syrup. A figure with bright eyes and a soft radiance in the fog stepped out of the churning gray. What are you? Adam's mouth was drier than dust as he croaked. The figure laughed.

"That is not the question to ask," "What's happening to me?"

"Better." The figure approached closer. Adam could see the features now—a chiseled jawline, prominent cheekbones, a smile that teetered on the border of amusement and something sinister.

The man asserted, "You're trapped." "But not in the way you think."

Adam closed his fists, sensing the cold sweat on his hands. "Where are you stalled?" The man waved vaguely in their direction. "Here. in this. place. Your head."

Adam let out a sharp breath. "This is a dream."

The man shook his head. "Not exactly. It's sort of. a limbo. a purgatory of the mind. You breathed in the smoke, didn't you?"

Adam's heart rate picked up. He attempted to remember that there had indeed been a pipe, a ritualistic swirling of silver mist, and a whispered promise of insight. He had attempted to find enlightenment, an escape from the ceaseless spiral of doubt that consumed his soul.

The man regarded him. "Adam, the smoke does not liberate you. It traps you. It feeds upon minds such as yours—restless, hung for significance."

Adam felt cold fear creep into his bones. "How do I get away?" The man inclined his head. "That depends."

"On what?"

"On whether you're prepared to confront what led you here." Adam could almost hear the whispering as the smoke closed in tighter around him. In the fog, images of his failures, regrets, and the decisions that brought him to seek refuge in forbidden knowledge flashed. His father's disappointed look. The love he had allowed to slip through his fingers. He had abandoned his fantasies. His chest grew tighter. Unreadable face, the man observed. The man spoke softly, "Truth is painful." "Are you ready to accept it?"

Adam pinched his eyes shut. The pressure of the smoke weighed upon him, suffocating every nook in his mind with crushing doubt. And yet there was another thing, a spark, deeply hidden beneath it. The mere spark of defiance.

He struggled back with clenched teeth. The smoke struggled, constricting its hold, but Adam battled. He compelled himself to look—to really look—at the errors, the opportunities lost. And then he embraced them instead of running from them. The smoke collapsed. His senses were filled with lucidity at once. Adam breathed for the first time in what felt like an eternity as the fog cleared and the shadows disappeared.

He was home when he opened his eyes. Now the room was changed, more tangible and brighter. The specks of silver from the busted pipe were all gone, scattered on the floor beside him. Adam breathed deep of the clean, crisp air. He had battled the mental smoke. And he had emerged victorious.