Mud

palms grip moss.
I balance atop a jagged rock. my feet slosh through the mud making a sound that I make note to remember because it puts a strangely euphoric smile on my face, like its promising to leave its muddy residue all day long.

Its mucky, but I like it. Its a residue that says, “I have been some place beautiful.”

I take a seat on the bench that holds many memories. Not in a sentimental mood, I focus on anything but those memories. I stare at the dry branches of the trees overlooking the city. These branches resemble disfigured arms- they are strangely beautiful to me. They make me think of the dozens of aspects of our being, some are not pretty, some are smooth and inviting, some are strong and welcome support, some snap off when they are no longer useful- if we let them. But nonetheless these aspects are rooted, over years and years, not going anywhere– unless you let someone cut them down

but that choice is yours.

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