the mud
a little story on the way.
Portugal, Nice, Italy, my being sings a love song of the perfect life at every little moment.
No more than a week later, the mist cloud devours me, like a mud sledge, the sinking foot, it draws you slowly and deeper. Deep down.
The initially cool chill pulls the last heat out of the limbs and centimeters by centimeters your foot is covered with darkness. The situation is hopeless, the last aid screams like a cat stretching after a long sleep. silence
A rustling in the bush. A voice – “The mud heals”
My senses – again blood pumping into the vanes of my foot.
The healing mud scratches off the sins of my last life, like the old skin leaving my foot in the depths of the underworld.
A fresh young foot escaped from the cloud and climbs again into the fresh, comfortable moss on the way to the next exam..
