Strange stories

The valley of mud

Far away for some, very close for others, you will find the valley of mud. A large soft maw of brown and warm sludge. So so welcoming. It has swallowed many over its existence. Some crawl in and leave a while later. Fortunate souls. A far away slit. Where aloof family members forget your name and friends turn away. Where you forget friends and turn away from family. An echoing welcoming melancholy where emotion is stripped and nothing is put back to replace it. A place where fondness forgets, happiness grimily slides out of grasp, strangers laugh, everyone is the same, all are pulled in. It is so hard to leave. Said valley is warm at the very bottom. It is the acceptance of the finale of the tango you dance so delicately. You need others to climb out, but all of the helping hands have ash'd. I return here when the thoughts overwhelm me. When faces hide lying malice and I become a slave to mine suggestion's own torture. New features always for me to recall not having seen whence last I remembered them. Familiar faces and acts and tied to the place recollection hides. The valley where I lay face down in to soak for a while. Exhaustion consumes me. To trek to the gorge is among the highest of ill advisable acts yet all who advise thus ill, are powerless to stop its call. The pass of terracotta brown will claim whomsoever it chooses. 

I have lost to the valley. Friends, family, myself.

The muddy hole bleats a eulogy, an elegy which knolls over. A deluge of dirges. And it is a sorrowful one indeed but it speaks peace. It speaks quietness in a world of noise. Where all is loud and irritating, the bottom of the pit calls with a deafening silence. A hiss of mud oozing over itself for eternity. Oh how how how long have I sat by the ridge and listened to its sonnet and wished for its crescendo, its climax, its revolution, its plot point, its end . My body aches though phantomly. The uninvited guest of my skull chats with me, and it tells me pities and sorrows. I plead content with it. It listens for a while. It whispers while I work. It creeps into my nose, the smell of such an easy place. Wet grass. Rain. Ironic the smell of life to hide the muck of death. Its uneasy gravelly muddy stones grind at my flesh when I would sink downwards. 

The signs that show to the isle of despair are unreadable by all except those who understand where they are going. They still cannot turn back meager force alone.

I have crawled out muddied. I have left blemished. I always return clean from the peak to sink into the valley. Timely as always. I am never late.