Is Hope?

I see fog on the horizon. The sun's rays have yet to break across the curve of the earth and scatter the low-lying clouds. A misty vapor shrouds any passers by; the field has yet to be crossed. A fog so thick, one would be soon lost. The haze beckons to the few who seek peace from the swirling clouds of their minds. The air is so thick here, you can taste the bitter, acrid burn. Soft gray wisps draw me in, dark, deep hues call me out - as if a moth to the flame. Mesmerized, I shuffle forward; my eyes locked on something... My feet reach the edge of the pavement, the mist begins to kiss and lap at my sneakers, asking to see my feet. I swiftly kick them to the side, and my toes welcome the soft, wet lips, the stark, cold dew. This thing, this soft beast, this silky, shaky, shifting smog eats away at my soles. The balls of my feet long for the grey in front of me as I step gingerly into the waves. They sigh softly against my shins and pull me in. I wade to my waist and wait. I watch and listen but the sun has long left this steadfast grey gleam. The silvery slivers of moonlight sparkle and beg me to come closer; lean in further, breathe in deeper. I push slowly forward, my toes squidging into soft, mucky, murk. I blink and see grey, I turn to look behind, and I realize I can't see the pavement. I can't see the shore. A soft, small whisper shifts and floats across the expanse and fills my ears like a trumpet forcing practice notes through the too-thin ceiling above me. I collapse and cover my ears, shrinking back, stepping, falling, into a deep, dark emptiness. My body falls down, down, down. My hands search for roots, branches, vines, dirt, anything, anything I might snatch to catch myself. My nails dig into the cold, hard walls, my fingertips begin to bleed into the stones. Dirt jams into my cuticles, my fingertips, my veins, and I land on my shins. The ground is soft and wet. Something dark and dank fills my nostrils. Oh, how I long for the sun! I curl my body into a ball and sit, my back asking for space, a rounded wall obliges, and I wait. I hope and pray the sun's rays will be great enough to find me. I notice a lightening in the everlasting darkness and reach out. The cold seeps into my bones, stiffening my sore muscles. I stretch forward still, pushing myself along, right hand, right knee, left hand, left knee, right hand... until I reach the ever-waning light. My knee scrapes something hard, protruding from the soft, wet earth. A handle, a handle that won't budge. So I dig, sinking my nails further and further until the handle moves in my palms. Some cold, crisp thing appears in my hands, the dirt falling to the side. A half-circle, attached to a hollow metal bowl. A pail! I pull harder still, falling back onto my haunches, my fingers pulling the bucket along with me. Something firm and scratchy drags along the skin of my toes. I work my fingers around this cylinder-like thing, and I feel the braids forming beneath my palms: a rope.