Mud

Write what you know.

I mean, it feels lame, writing about this depression. But that's what I know the most about right now, it seems. And I need to write, for frig's sake. 

The last time I talked to anyone about needing to write was... I want to say March? I talked to her about feeling like I was down in a hole, staring at the mud, and I added my whine about wanting and needing to write.

Her reply? 

"So write about the mud."

That has been in my head since she said it. Write about the mud. I know the mud, I look at the mud every day (or I think about it with my eyes closed so I don't have to look at it). I cover myself in it. I disappear into it. So why not write about it? It's what I know.

So, the mud. 

It's dark and pretty disgusting. It smells. Not an altogether bad smell, but how good can mud really smell? It smears everything that touches it. It sticks and stains. It never really dries.It's brown. It's dirt and water.

Dirt. Water. Essentials for plants to grow, for roots to take hold... 

But mud... What's mud good for?

There must be something. But I've been in it so long, I can't see out of it. I can't see an answer. I'm not a plant, and my roots don't work like that. And no one wants to get down in here with me. People may want to pull me out, but they either know that they can't, or they don't want to (or can't afford to) get close enough to get this mud all over themselves.

So I'm stuck here, a pig in her wallow, trying to figure out what this mud can be for, other than slowly, slowly pulling me under, letting me hide, burying me alive.

What is it good for?

I can't see out. I can't see an answer.