My legs feel as if they are held in thick mud. It’s up to my ribcage. It’s dark and earthy, and it doesn’t respond to my struggle. Sometimes, if I move slowly and rhythmically, I can move just a little bit, and breathe easily for a short period of time. I never slip back, but it creeps. If I stop moving, it’s inevitable, I will again struggle.
That mud is deep. Deeper than I can even imagine. I don’t even know how mud can be like that, or how far I’ve traveled. Eventually, I tell myself, I will reach the clouds. That would be nice. I think the light that filters through the sky is like magic. Maybe that’s what joy is made of. I wonder.
I can’t always see it, but I keep wiggling. Lately I’ve even been reaching. With my legs bound up, and my torso just out of the stuff, I feel myself stretching. Usually it’s just one arm, like an awkwardly extended tree branch, seeking the sun.
It’s tiresome. Countless times I have dropped my arm. The mud creeps. I start to struggle to breathe. I choose to writhe, again. I raise the other arm. I touch a simple ray of light. It feels good. It’s fleeting. It’s ok. The clouds are close. I want more. It’s not as scary as it seemed.