But I'm not falling.

It's like a big expanse of space,
and I can't see very far ahead,
and I can't see my feet,
but I'm not falling.

And the only thing I can kind of see
is a fog, a mist, a dense vapor,
not quite white, not quite gray,
but some kind of hue of nothingness.

The infinite denseness ebbs into shapes, 
flows into patterns, and I,
some of it looks so real,
I reach out to try to grasp it.

It dissipates when I reach for it,
and takes clearer forms when I wait.
I tread so carefully, slowly, lightly,
and then run, leap, spin into the fog.

The only walls that I might hit,
and dangers I might encounter,
are illusions of my mind,
fabrications of my thoughts.

And the only changes that I might see,
and new experiences I might feel,
are only found if from time to time
I run, leap, spin into the fog.

I can't feel the ground sometimes,
but I'm not falling.
I only see dense fog sometimes,
​and I'm floating.