There is nothing. The vision of the future is obscured, the light shines on a small patch of path and the black fog is too thick to see past, the dim figures and maybes ahead invisible- who can say if there is even anything there?
The light shines only on the stones your feet are on. The past is muddy, a mire of half-memories and rosy dreams attempting to cover the nightmares. The muck sticks to boots and makes the present slippery so you risk falling headlong in to the dense gloom ahead, an empty blackness where nothing, not even nature, exists.
What does it mean to stay rooted where the light of familiarity shines, when you know that the unknown dark holds only oblivion?
There is nothing beyond this flickering piece of path. The air is still and humid and a foul odor threatens from the dark. The future stinks, a corpse of the past’s promises.
There is nothing.