I walk through the valley of mist, floor sixty-two. A pale, white fog looms heavily around us, filling the empty space of the floor with a shifting ocean of immaterial density. Like walking through a cloud, I simply push my way forward as the fog looms around me, around us. Its presence isn’t dire or dreadful or anything of that nature, it’s not an evil fog.

 

It’s just fog. Right, fog?

 

“Yeah man,” says the fog and I nod in agreement. It’s just fog. Stop asking so many questions, guy, you’re looking too deeply into this. Quite frankly, you’re being rude to our host. Sorry fog.

 

“It’s okay,” says the fog. “I’m used to it. People are always suspicious of me.”

 

“That’s very unfair of them,” I tell the fog, who simply drifts on, undisturbed by your judgmental ways.

 

“So what’s it like? You know? Being fog?” I ask the nebulous wall surrounding me on all sides.

 

“Eh, it is what it is. You know?”

 

I shake my head. I don’t know.

 

The fog goes on, explaining. “Some days I make a wall and let a bunch of zombies glare out of me with hungry, glowing eyes. Really makes for a spooky atmosphere, you know? Other days, I work as a curtain to reveal the hero when he comes through, trying to look particularly dramatic.”

 

“That’s cool,” I shrug.

 

“Yeah, you get used to it after a while though. It’s just a job now, you know?”

 

I nod. I guess I can understand that.

 

“So how’d you become fog?”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“I mean, what did you do before you were fog?”

 

“I was always fog, man, what kind of question is that?”

 

“I dunno. Maybe you were a cloud? Or like, water vapor from a kettle or something? Worked your way up the ladder.”

 

The fog shakes its head. Sort of. It’s hard to explain, okay? “No, I was just always fog. Always have been, always will be.”

 

I rub the back of my head as I walk, trying my best to understand. “Are you a metaphor?”

 

“What? No, I’m fog. Aren’t you listening?” says the fog, sounding oddly nervous.

 

“Sorry, I have trouble wrapping my mind around these things. Everything seems to be a metaphor these days.”

 

The fog floats quietly alongside me. “Have you tried doing something else?”

 

“What do you mean?” I ask the fog.

 

“You know? Maybe you could become fog.”

 

“Naaah,” I wave the fog off. “I like having fingers to do, uh… fingery stuff with.”

 

“Gross!” shouts the slime-girl.

 

“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” I scold her, but she just laughs, bubbling around in excitement.

 

“What about you? Ever thought about being anything else than fog?”

 

The fog looks up towards the sky as we walk. “No, I like being fog. It’s what I was born to do, in every sense of the phrase.”

 

“Isn’t that sad?” I ask. Maybe I’m being rude now, but I want to know.

 

“What do you mean?” asks the fog.

 

“Well…” I rub my head. “If you were born to do something and then you spend forever doing it, isn’t that sad? What about what you want? Not what destiny wants.”

 

“But I want to be fog,” answers the fog. “I was born to do it, but it’s also what I like doing, you know?”

 

I wonder. “Do you think there’s a difference?”

 

“I think so,” says the fog. “But I’m lucky that those things happen to overlap in my case. I think a lot of people get so stuck in chasing what they like, that they forget what it is that they should be doing.”

 

“Is that what life is about, though? Doing what you should do? Isn’t that boring? What if I should get a boring job as a goblin shaman, but I want to be a skeleton warrior in my heart of hearts?”

 

  “No man, you aren’t getting it,” says the fog, rolling around me like gentle waves atop an ocean. “You can never really do what it is that you like doing with peace of mind, if you haven’t already done what you should have done.” The fog picks up its pace, swirling around a little in a gentle spiral as we move. It’s just nice to walk while we talk, you know? “If you haven’t dotted your I’s and crossed your T’s then that will nag you all day while you’re trying to do what you enjoy.”

 

“You think?”

 

“Yeah, it’s so easy to just decide ‘I want to do this,’ but you know what?”

 

“What?” I ask the fog.

 

  “Take care of your responsibilities first. Then do what you want to do. Clean your room, make your bed, clean your body, clean your spirit just the same. Take care of yourself and do what you need to do to hold the world up aloft on top of your shoulders and then, and only then, look down at your own list of wants, with eyes that aren’t distracted. Only then can you fully focus on what you want.”

 

  I narrow my eyes in suspicion, listening to the fog talk about the importance of personal responsibility. I mean, I agree that it’s important. Life should be about fun and adventure, but the road to that isn’t through colorful fun and adventure, as ironic as that sounds. The road to a fulfilling life is paved with a foundation of dull, gray responsibility and personal ethics. Build a road to walk on and then run down it with arms flung open wide. But…

 

I stop, looking around me at the fog. “Are you sure that you aren’t a metaphor?”

 

The fog clears its throat. “No man, it’s cool, I swear.”

 

“Hmm…” I mumble, staring at the nervous fog. “I don’t know, this sounds a lot like a metaphor. Are you trying to sell me something?”

 

The fog laughs nervously, raising its hands. “No man, it’s cool, I just uh… oh, hey, I gotta go.”

 

And with that, the fog drifts away, recessing back towards the start of the floor, leaving me standing alone on the staircase. My eyes narrow as I watch the nervous fog hustle away.

 

“It was a metaphor!” calls the slime in excitement.

 

I nod in agreement. But I have no idea what it was a metaphor about. Oh well, can’t understand em all. It’s a more comfortable one than the last floor’s at least. I wonder why the dungeon is trying to teach me so many lessons?

 

Or maybe it’s just always been doing this and I’ve only recently learned how to listen. Wait.

 

Shit.

 

I look back to the fog that has all but vanished out of my clutches. That jerk. That was his metaphor all along.

 

Ugh.

 

 

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