Swamp Is Calling

Swamp calling, go running. At the knees, at the very least. If it sucks you in deeper, pray for liberation. Strummerville. A place that follows me everywhere. There is so much upstairs, it is frightening, utterly frightening. I'm not here, this isn't me. We've been here before.

When the curtain falls, somehow it opens again, and the sunlight comes in. We shouldn't be surprised. I can hear the dripping drops. They never seem to know how to stop, like clocks, entering the consciousness, a feeling they might never leave once inside. The swamp, it is calling. Perhaps I want to listen. It's hard not to. There are those with direction and purpose and passion, there are those who are mechanoids, robotic and programmed. Who knows what is right. Alas, the search for something deeper continues. I have a feeling some answers can be found in the swamp here.