Let the air thicken.
Let the edges blur.
Let certainty loosen its grip.
I call the fog that bends memory,
the hush that makes familiar rooms strange, the shimmer that turns footsteps into echoes.
Let names slip.
Let time stutter.
Let the mind wander the wrong hallway and open the wrong door
to find the right truth.
Confusion, come gently.
Not as chaos,
but as the soft unmaking
that precedes revelation.
Cloud the path
so the hidden one appears.
Scatter the thoughts
so the real one remains.
By mist, by murmur, by the turning of the inner tide—
let the world tilt just enough
for clarity to find its way in.
© 2026 Jaime Pearson. My voice writes the work; AI helps polish the edges.
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