What's the point?

Fog. It is all I see. Stretching for miles and miles across in all directions. My footsteps linger; the fog breaks as I pass. I turn and see the winding path I took to get here. It might have not been the best. Where am I going? What is the point? The view is so unclear and the destination even more. I know where I want to go, but the shallow clouds prevent me, blinding my legs, deterring them from their road. What's the point? I lay and sleep hoping for the fog to move, but there is no wind. Not a single breeze blows, and the clock ticks. It ticks ever more without my regard, and parties do not wait on the guest. Should I turn back? My house longs for me in the distance. I can hear it beg for my return. I can feel its close embrace. I want to go farther, but what's the point? There are no signs to guide me, and the roads are unfamiliar. I feel like a sailor with no compass. The seas are stirring, pulling me farther away from shore, and the maelstrom drives me in circles. What's the point? People's voices taunt me. I hear cheer and security. All of the noises feel near and brush past my ears, but the fog blocks my view. They don't seem to see me either. I give up. I recluse. I am dying of thirst and hunger. I can no longer walk. My home will comfort me, and the fog I broke will show me the way back. There is no exploration required, and my feet will be happy finally. I will lay on my bed, rather than the hard, cold ground. I will eat the finest of food and won't starve. I will stay, and ponder to go outside, but then I think "What's the point?"