mud
The sun radiates behind me, warming my shoulders and back. On my hands and knees, the ground is a thick layer of mud like the frosting of a birthday cake. In it are diagrams and and writings. Most are indiscernible, written in a language I don’t speak or describing events yet to happen.
Drawn in thick lines when the mud was saturated and nearly fluid is my destiny. A definitive path meanders through many crude illustrations. It darts from left to right, circles around itself, reverses and then reverses again. It climbs steep slopes or gradually works up rolling hills. Where the path leads is far off, too far to see.
Many other paths cross it, overlap it and run alongside it. They’re flanked by the same illustrations, changing constantly. Changes I make to my path sometimes influence the others but I can’t change them directly.
Like the knee of an overzealous police officer, an ominous feeling presses on my chest. Behind me are footprints, comments and more diagrams. They have already set, dried as hard as stone. They’ve led me here, to where the mud is starting to solidify before my eyes.
It’s drying more rapidly than ever. The rays are getting stronger, ripping the moisture from it. I can still dig, alter the drawings and erase some writings, but the sun is reaching farther faster than I can keep up. My digging and altering manifests new diagrams or narratives farther along but I can’t move fast enough.
The path shifts and maneuvers with every change to the mud directly below me. The path avoids climbs or drops off in ways that seem arbitrary. The pressure against my chest motivates my hands. Any change here or there could ease the tension, release it completely or make it much worse.
Parts of the path dry before others. When I started the drawings could be manipulated freely. Now the task is arduous and exhausting. My fingers are rubbed raw by graphics or words already set. All the while, the sun beats down.
Ahead of me lay hundreds of events, twists, celebrations and disappointments. I could get off my knees and walk but to stand would mean forfeit. The moisture is being so quickly evicted from the muddy path it would mean defeat. It would mean coming to terms with the ominous feeling. It would mean coming to terms with the path being mostly beyond my control.
Soon, I will only be able to manage small changes, tiny alteration to the drawings and inscriptions. The flexibility of the saturated soil will give way to firm opposition. That will be that.
I claw at the dirt, adding words here, illustrations there or wiping away whole diagrams, hoping to align the path according to my aspirations. I can only hope the work will pay off, that I’ll be able to make large enough modifications.
Once the mud it set, I’ll stand, start walking and follow the course. I’m confident I’ll be able to manage and accept whatever comes. But until then, I’ll keep working the wet dirt, trying to make the walk that much easier.