Tugged towards the mud by a leashed monster I stumbled over a wooden plank. My shoes and pants were filthy, and my bottom was wet from where I had sat on a mossy root to spare a moment earlier on. I had not gone alone. I had to bring the demon along, keeping him cooped up in our one story home with nothing for entertainment was just cruel; he probably barked at walls and chased shadows all day, bored out of his mind. I would be. Earlier that afternoon I clipped on his packs, looped on his leash and we headed out to the car, one determinedly dragging the other with every ounce of strength contained in his lean body. We walked for an hour together, traversing a new trail. He was not tired out, despite sprinting excitedly back and forth along the thin trails, while my methodical marching successfully drained what energy I had. I expend energy simply witnessing his crazed jaunts in the grass fields and wet inclines. I had made the decision to visit my place after our hike so I could let him romp in the creek where I had settled next to a couple months prior for the first time. It seemed the same as ever; drab, unassuming, steady in the small torrent of sluggish water rampantly rushed through the dirty ravine. Words flew by my face and then darted away, daring me to catch them before they were tugged up by the wind, pulled down by the water, caught by the tree branches or trampled by wet, ignorant paws. My eyes cleared and my senses focused and I caught my first word; it had been riding on top of the creek, basking in the cloudy light piercing through the tree branches: ‘rivulets’. I held onto the word tightly, snatching a couple more dangling in front of my face. Taking my time, I sewed them together into a string of sentences. The little devil meanwhile made a quick pass by my left leg, shaking his wet fur to attach the droplets on my jeans. I ignored the distraction and squinted at the dirt. A moment later I leaned forward and plucked up two pairs, almost buried underneath old footprints: ‘egotistical’ and ‘dystopian’ stuck together like glue, ‘disillusionment’ and ‘catastrophic’ tangled together like strings.

I stayed at my place for a bit, watching and waiting for the words to pop out of the bushes, float to the top of the water, fall down from the wind, appear from underneath the soil, and as they did I collected them in my chilled, dirty hands and sewed them together….as I worked the words assembled a cruelly honest statement of beliefs that had been congregating in the recesses of my thoughts:

The rivulets of water turn to blood and to tears and the river bleeds and grieves at a world so plentiful and vibrant, coated with vacant gainsboro and listless cinereous grays; unglamorous eyes of regrets, misgivings and toils regard the insouciant happenings of the depressed, indebted, fixedly sinking from altruistic manners.
The continuous rattle of droplets against droplets, water against stone, begs the inconspicuous murmur of one always forgotten, forever ignored. In a world filled with egotistical minds, it is shockingly similar to dystopian societies displayed in books; surrounded by disillusionment of catastrophic quantity where sacrifice is the only reprieve. One would ponder the exquisite non-retaliation to such utter lack of seriousness, valor and morality consuming the nowaday, present society complex.

Calculating minds are discarded in a pile of distrust, paranoia and indecision. But with my vindictive personality embezzled in a desire to be better, the ashes remain gilded, maintaining a facade of happiness, satisfaction and nonchalance. A repoire of alarming misconceptions vocalizes semblances to avoid the discovery of pure bafflement inside. The body is hollowed and filled with lies and deceptions of contentment, as hate drills cracks into the seams of my being. Fissures shiver to the fingertips and leak poisonous self loathing, and the water continuously weeps and bleeds...

The words led me. They wrapped the rope around my wrists and held the knife to my neck; forced the meaning out of my parched lips and raw throat, concocting a bleak vision of unfortunate judgements and miserable impressions. A few loose threads dangled at the end of my tedious work, and I had to sit still for a moment to reign back in my breath galloping out of my throat in foggy clouds. I clipped the leash back on the rambunctious rascal and hauled him away from the playful stream, away from the barrage of words clambering to be selected. I deafened my ears to their persuasive, desperate screams and instead let the sound of the rolling water smoothen the silence. The current of water flushed out the anxiety the words had ushered into my veins. Before I left I extracted one more phrase from the peaceful setting, one bundled in coat of relief, gloom and solace, a necessary entity. I pocketed it for later.

There is no turning point, where the words become brighter, hopeful and relieving. The words remain what they are, telling honesty how it is raw, no sweet ending. Though the concoction may be bitter, cruel, untasteful and undesirable, it it a result of the most abstruse and arcane emotions developed, and obscure and esoteric thoughts generated. Now as I sit on my bed I pull it out, the last words; I thread my needle through one last time, tying the knot on the last phrase I took.