Through the Bog

Daydream #6

Through the Bog

You see me, all filthy and scarred. You want to help, but you often do not know what to do. It weighs on you, it frustrates you and drives you mad. You cannot be ON all the time, you cannot be perfect all the time, but who can. You want to be tough for me, but even the strongest need their rest.

Breathe, breathe; always remember to breathe.

I wade through thick bog, sick to my stomach already from the rank stench of decay. I hear nothing save for my pensioner's pants, and the suckling sounds of my feet rising and falling with each step. I do not question my direction nor my destination, for I had to depart from where I once lingered. I brood upon the ripples I am producing on this murky surface as it broods upon me.

Breathe, breathe; always remember to breathe.

You attempt to distract yourself from all the intrusive thoughts as they launch another attack on your sense of identity. You often ask yourself who you are, and how you got here. You question the paths you have taken, and the mistakes you have made. But the answers do not satisfy that itch. Your mind always finds something else, something sharp and poisonous to poke you with. It is a never-ending loop designed to hurt you.

Breathe, breathe; always remember to breathe.

I attempt to distract myself from all the intrusive thoughts as they set up camp in yet another province of my psyche. I often create vivid nightmares constructed using vague concepts, and facts lacking rigour. I even trigger myself to produce more horrendous visions. But even when I am calm for a time, I am always able to create more traitorous nightmares. It is a never-ending loop designed to hurt myself.

Breathe, breathe; just remember to breathe.

You wade through thick bog, sick to your stomach already from all the toxic fumes of inner turmoil. You look up and pray to the void for a moment's peace. In the silence of it all, your ears pick up the sound of footsteps. More and more, knackered faces of shattered folk. The lost and tired masses of this world gather around you, and stand in prayer.

Breathe, breathe; always remember to breathe.

I see you, all filthy and scarred. I see them too, but they blur against your radiance. It is not the bright light of a saviour that I see in you, but the warm hue of home. I stand before you, looking like a creature from the deep. I hold your gaze for a moment, then turn to the sky. I pray for you. I pray for us.

surreal poetry
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Ahmed N. Gretly

PhD Student, writer, researcher, a book addict, and a day dreamer.

Edinburgh - Cairo

See all posts by Ahmed N. Gretly