Saturday, December 25, 2010


Why are we drawn to the swamp?

Is it because we were born in the desert and slept under mosquito nets?

Is it because we are sick of dry roads studded with landmines, baby scorpions under rocks?

Have we seen enough of charred death, dry silence, and long for the slow rot? There was the blackened shell of the car at the bottom of the cliff and it haunted me. It haunted you.

Now we want mud, things birthed in slime, dark hanging mosses. We walk deeper into the swamp, and the smooth faces under our boots are the faces of ancient Man, perfectly preserved beneath the suckling water. You have been bitten by a treesnake. I am rabid with malaria. But when they pull us out, they will find that the sheen over our eyes is not from sickness, but from joy.

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You are truly great.