The past is the past; it's dead and buried. I emerge from the mists to face the new day, the new light, the life that promises to be brighter. Still blinded by the swirling grey fog, the way for a better life is still obscure, but as sure as I know the Earth turns beneath my feet, I know that the path I am on is the one that will lead me to happiness, even if I am to travel it with parts of myself missing, lost in the fog I leave behind.
This time I'll remember to leave my love in a jar by the door. Perhaps it's better to pick it up as I leave, instead of coming in holding it too tightly, and then giving it away to temptation. Perhaps it's better, instead of losing yourself to those behind that certain door.
So as the blindness lifts from my eyes, and the fog begins to lift, I hope to find myself standing on the edge of a sunflower field. The only problem with mist is that its remnants will cling to you, wherever you may go, woven into the fibres of your very being, never unravelling.