I sit in a bustling fast-food restaurant at the heart of Igando, desperately trying to make headway on my final year project. I’m miserably failing at making significant progress. I struggle to centre my focus on the essays in front of me. My deadline is a colossal yet patient fog resting in the not-so-distant future. It taunts me with its immobility. I'm reminded that Time, like a god, will ultimately deliver me into the unforgiving, never-to-be-satisfied belly of the fog. 

Worship and praise do not sustain Time like they do gods. Remaining unmoved by my pleas for extended grace, Time turns a deaf ear to my cries. I beg Time to punish my disordered attention instead, attributing the blame to my mind's inability to focus. Offering reason for me to not be delivered to the encroaching fog. 

I explain that I am capable of many wonders and that my mind plays the antagonist in this tragic drama, betraying me at every turn. I confide in Time about my beautifully burdened mind, its mysterious and clouded nature on most days, and its brilliance and competence on others.

With desperation, I reach for the hem of Time’s silver cloak and recount the many instances when my mind had succumbed to the seductive allure of instant gratification, leading to its inability to commit to any task and the other times it would swim towards the depths of hyper-fixation, a realm beyond my control. I plead with Time to understand how I’ve begged my mind to fight for me, not against me. Now I’m being banished to the belly of the fog.

This consequence is not of my making. “I am willing, but my mind is weak,” I protest. “I do not deserve this punishment. I am owed an extension.” I demand. “It’s my mind’s fault. It's the author of things it never finishes. Leave me, take it instead!” I shout to time, but I do not a response receive.

Time has tasted the salty prayers offered by many and heard many excuses, but Time can’t grant clemency to people who dawdle and only offer worship when they finally run out of time. Mercy, Time knows, is not its to grant. It is bound by three duties: to tick, to tock, and to strike O’clock.

Consequence. Failure.

The consequence of your inaction is failure.

Your reward is Failure.

As I sit, donned in an attire tailored from the finest cotton, harvested from the plantations of procrastination, I will be plucked like rotten fruit and delivered to the looming fog that is my deadline.

I come to terms with my fate, preparing to be ushered into the fog of consequence. The world around me morphs into a different reality. The cacophony of Igando market peters out to a silence so profound that for a moment I wonder if Time has rewarded me with the grace of sudden deafness as a reprieve from the prison that menacingly looms ahead. Then darkness shrouds the sun, and the wind loses its vigour, rendering the world to be still. The busy crowd that littered the market a moment ago vanishes instantly, and I am suddenly surrounded by an arid expanse. Present in this new land are only two beings–myself and my self-appointed chauffeur.

As we journey toward the fog, mist begins to envelop me. I peer into the droplets that compose the mist. Within them, I see The Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil and the men who disobediently tasted its fruit. They’re seated in a carriage synonymous with what carries me, and in a land just as dark and uninhabited as my present path. I see Time leading the first failures out of the Garden of Eden, but there is no fog waiting to consume them.

The mist vanishes. Immediately, I sense another mist forming on the other side of the carriage. I rush to see into the droplets. In them, I watch a soldier with a Swastika armband in an identical carriage, in a land mirroring the one I currently traverse. Time is at the front of the carriage, but once more, I do not see a fog.

The mist dissipates, and yet another forms before me. The same sequence unfolds with a different passenger, the same carriage, the same land, the same chauffeur, but still no fog. 

An epiphany buds within me.

Consequence. Failure. Growth.

The consequence of your inaction is a lesson learnt.

Your reward is Growth.

For the first time through this ordeal, I remember my beautifully burdened mind, the mind I hastily blamed, seeking to absolve myself of consequence, the mind I seemed to have forgotten was an integral part of me, a part of me I couldn't simply disregard because it functioned differently from what I perceived was normal. I sought perfection and clarity in every endeavour, believing that there was only one way to be human, to be academic and successful. I didn’t recognise that my mind was showing me a different way to experience life. I chided it for all the lovely places it took me to, thinking it was inadequate. I denied myself the joy my mind gifted me. Now, look at where I am, rewarded with darkness and the fear of a non-existent fog.

“Stop the carriage,” I say to Time. The carriage comes to a halt, and Time walks towards me, its silver cloak flowing gracefully.

“Where are you taking me?” I ask. 

Time remains an enigma, with a concealed face hiding behind the gleaming silver cloak that I never saw. I don’t know many things, but I understand that time exists in three forms: the past, the present, and the future. “There's a reason a fog did not threaten some passengers in the droplets, and I know not everyone you carry goes through this sad land.”

I step out of the carriage and walk towards the fog, Time following behind. I reflect on how I believed that failure was my reward for struggling through deadlines, relationships and life. As I walk with a reformed sense of self and a newfound appreciation for my mind, I question why I ever deemed myself undeserving of something better. 

With each step towards the fog, my sense of self is reinforced. The fog doesn’t look so menacing now. With the new trust I’ve found in my mind’s capabilities, the fog takes on a gentler appearance. What once felt like a roar now softens into a whisper. 

Time and I come to a halt where the fog begins. I turn to Time and say, “Like water, you exist in three forms. The difference lies in your linear nature, unlike water’s ability to morph between its forms, you exist in just one linear pattern. You are either of the present or of the future. My future.”

I inch closer to Time, reaching for the cloak’s hood, and pulling it back to reveal a face. 

Beneath the hood of the beautiful silver cloak lay an all too familiar face. Of course. It makes sense that Time and I would share a face.

“So, what will you do now that you know?” Time's inquiry echoed softly in the space between us. Calm and resolute, I respond, “I’ll step into the fog. I’ll make my own rewards from now on. The fog is only a consequence if I make it such.”

With that declaration, Time replaces its hood and turns back to the carriage, dissolving into the void from which we came.

I draw in a deep breath as I step into the fog. It's almost comical, the transformation that occurs when you face your fears. You realise your fears are not the grand, volatile spectres you once envisioned. With newfound determination, I move into the fog, eyes wide open.

The fog is ‌light and ethereal. As I navigate my way through it, I murmur words of affection to my mind, asking for its forgiveness and promising to trust its guidance. With every step, I embrace the uncertainty, each footfall a testament to my commitment to growth.

Upon emerging from the fog, I’m met with the warmth of the sun against my skin, the familiar noise of the Igando market, and the stale smell of day-old bread sold in the cheap restaurant where I sat. This time, I recognise that the consequence of my inaction is a lesson learned, and my reward, sweet and profound, is the gift of personal growth.