The necessity of a corporeal existence inspires only revulsion. I am forced to have this experience, with only death offered as an escape. My Body jiggles and jerks, a marionette to external realities. Inescapable, ineluctable, my Body is disgusting and out of my control in all but the most superficial of ways—a flimsy illusion of freedom I'm supposed to swallow like an acid-sweet pill. Masterbation and self-harm seem the only true choices of dominion available. How is it that I have the power of extreme influence on other bodies, should I choose to do so, yet feel so powerless over my own? A gun, a knife, a feather, my own hands hold such power over others. If I use the same on myself, it feels satirical.

Dread permeates every action, interaction, thought, feeling… the moment I look inwards to peek at the source through the cracks between my fingers (eyes covered by a child’s frightened hands), it floods my mind, fills every cobwebbed nook of my consciousness until self-preservation forces me to stem the flow however i can - don't look at it, just don't think about it, if you can't see it then it can’t see you. (Exhibit A: An ostrich. With its head. In the sand.)

Obviously, not the best solution. The main source is stemmed, a shaky dam of avoidance built. (Exhibit B: A beaver. Buckteeth prominent in a mouth hanging vacantly open. Eyes watching the latest distraction^media.) Still, the structure isn’t sound. I’ve never been good at building anything that lasts. Empty aesthetics, that’s me. Functionality? What’s that? (Exhibit C: A peacock. Farcically trying to take flight.) The ceiling leaks in uncountable places, a number beyond my ability to index and deal with. The house is damp and cold. The air smells of mold. Frivolous decorations hang listlessly on the musty walls. The floor is consistently and constantly aqueous - every step taken splashes in the inch or so of the ever present water and mire.

I've bred an ecosystem. Lots of creatures thrive in this environment, y’know. There’s a reason most human settlements avoid swamps. I wish I could escape too, but I’ve grown roots and the mushrooms have overtaken me. The swamp isn’t all bad. It can be pretty in its own way, and it definitely has some interesting inhabitants. Fish, amphibians, reptiles. Crocodiles. Never really was my crowd, to be honest, but I’ll take what I can get.

I long for the days where sunshine breaks through between the clouds, warms the skin of my cheeks, brings a cleansing breeze to beget yet another of the infinite new beginnings in existence at every moment. Gives me some hope. Usually of the false sort. The house starts to dry out a bit. (Exhibit D: A lizard. Basking in the sun.)

Of course, the sun inevitably goes away. It gives me a taste of what could be, even lets me have it for a time. I start to forget what damp feels like. Then the clouds come back and the sun disappears and the mold starts encroaching and I think, it’s okay, it’s temporary, the sun will come back sooner or later, I can hold on, but time creeps inexorably forwards and with it the memory of sunshine slowly fades until I can barely remember what it felt like. I go into autopilot because that’s easiest, everything else takes too much energy and I barely have enough of that to keep dragging my feet along. (Exhibit E: Sloth.)

I don’t have an ending in mind, I’m not capable of it. The sun will come back, I know that on an intellectual level. I even believe it, sort of. Doesn’t really change anything at present, though, does it?

Is the sunshine worth the mire?