Mud

Why do I so often feel pushed into spaces in which I cannot fit? It is as if a dark shadow hovers above me, wordlessly threatening me lest I fail to force myself into the cracks that contort and wound me. I am forced down into the depths and high up into the clouds. This thing laughs at me as I turn to run and find myself facing it around the next corner. Inescapable, it haunts me with its worm-like demeanor. Like a puff of stale air or a splash of reeking water it teases and provokes me, pretending to be merely aggravating, rather than paralyzing. It calls me names that I do not recognize and peels away layers of skin that I thought remained safe from inspection. Tirelessly, it works to disregard my efforts and seeks only to throw every ambition over the edge of a cliff. I feel precarious. I embrace this. Laughingly, I waltz across a thin cord, giggling as each wavering step sends me closer to toppling over. Call me Sister, call me Daughter, call me Good, call me Strong. I reach for these things and discover they are dust in my hands. Forward, forward I lunge, convinced that this means progress. This shadow is behind me, surely. Yet ahead it lurks with a new disguise. Each time, a new disguise. Enraged, I reach once again for the names it provides and spit in the dust to create a form I can recognize. I feel hands rubbing mud in my eyes and I cry out because I know this story well. Eagerly, I remove the grime from my eyes and look about to see this new world I have been promised. Leering, grinning, salivating at my false hope, the shadow beckons to me from its clausterphobic hole. I, unable to resist, pretend it does not exist, and step into the trap of my own accord.