Trip to the Wetlands

 A/N: This is an updated version of this work here. With some changes that had been suggested to me on forums. Hope that this can show some improvement 

I hear a chittering, its the high pitched cheep of a red squirrel, the leaves rustle as she scampers in the canopy. She sits at her intervals, and chews away; cracking, crunching, and plopping as it drops into her midden. Building up her pile upon the soft pine floor, its dampness softening the sounds of her dropped shells. It is when I’m focused on her that I hear it, the clunking song of an American bittern. Deep throat-ed clunks, birds singing in time with the running waters and rustling reeds. Bitterns are the best at hide and seek with me playing as the finder. I move through the pines, pushing, crunching on needles, rustling against my jacket. I want to see the small river, the wetlands hidden gem. The bitterns get louder the closer I get, but they remain hidden from view as always. My feet mush into the muddy terrain as it slowly turns from pine carpets to the boggy land.

The bog lands are what I came here for, I want to search in the depths of reeds and grasses. To find my hidden sphagnum mosses, bright and red with acids. When I step on them they consume my feet, swallowing my shoes in muddy water, peat floor barely keeping me afloat. Above these layers of compressed years of leaf litter, sits the shrubs. Plants that learned to survive and even thrive in these harsh environments. Many learning new ways to stay alive, like the northern purple pitcher plants, taking its colour from the environment, feasting on the flies passing through. Inside the sphagnum I can see long tendrils of flowers running across the ground, bog cranberries. I bend down to grab one, small and fragile with smooth skin. Inside this red berry there is a singular seed, and its fruit will be tart yet delicious. All these wonders for me alone hiding above this layer of moss.

 I wander further to the edges of these wetlands as there is what I came here for. An open water marsh, where the peat is but a thin layer. I sink further into it, each step adds water over my feet, it’s dampness seeps into my shoes. I wish for the solidness of home, however this is my comfort place, my wetland of life. I spy a yellow pond lily floating near the edge, wide singular leaves, flowers already spent. Underneath that pad will be the slime in which microscopic and macro-invertebrate will feed upon, the enrichment of marsh life. When I look further into the water I can watch little fry swimming to and fro, this water supporting all this life. At the same time I am wading through the world as it enters the slumbering months, in which the world slows down and rests. Looking into the open water again, I see the loon come back up from his diving. Slowly paddling towards the far side, pushing through the lilies as they get sparser. The ripples lap at my feet, creating small wish-wash noises, an unreal silence.

 Now that I have stopped moving I can notice more of the sounds, the songs of crickets and the summer ending, high pitched and ear splitting. Hearing the wind softly rushing through the blue flag lilies that litter the edges, watching them waving to me. I think about the water lilies, and what anchors them to the floor of the marsh. Part of me wonders if its worth diving under, experiencing that bottom and its ancient secrets. My hands scattering small invertebrates, fishes and grasping at plant life. Reaching into lily tubers, running my hands through the coontails. I am in love and enchanted in this underwater world in my head, craving being free from my human flesh. Envious of the loon who can meander through this hidden world easier.

I have to make my way back soon, the sun sets behind the pines, creating dark silhouettes. Crickets letting out their final calls of the days, blackbirds no long trilling. This silence reminds me of how alive this world is even in the eve of passing. Turning around will mean leaving this world behind, in its delicate state. No longer will my feet be in the peat, the muddied water frozen solid, plants long gone to rest. The dampness seeps into my clothes, giving me goose-pimples, my hair raising. I feel exposed, animal instincts kicking in that craves me to be hidden among the pines again in my natural habitat.

 I give in to those instincts, turning away from this fleeting beauty. The loon has since left, any left lilies closed, night is falling soon. I wander back down the way I came, the sludge clutching at my boots. Sluck, slop my feet make noise in the now silent bog, the cranberries all tucked away, shying from the cool night. Pitcher plants still stand stoically, and the blue flag waves goodbye as you pass. Each being a modest reminder of the dead months coming.

I cannot move any faster, hands grasp at the reeds I’m not ready to leave yet. I do not wish to leave and change, to die and be reborn. I crave for this land to be here and same, neither of us changing but living in stagnation. Alas I know seasons and years will change, and it took many moons to become the earth it is as I know and it will be many more to see drastic changes that I fear. As much as I crave to to stay and take this life with me, I cannot per the rules of keeping nature the way you entered it.  

Rolling the Grumbleduck

 we dumble down hills

play like the garhibbles

strittle and have our fills

together they saunter

garhibble followed by trekeds

sloping and sloshing for henters

finding our dropped pitalkek

we make it ganed a flakek

once again to dumble down the hills

the stubus watches us and our fills

    today in my course, we had to make nonsense poems based on the jabbawocky poem. Some of these are words from this class as well as my own made up shit. 

Tundra Runners

     The day is short and the nights are long. The cold bites in your fur. It is the tundra, the cold. Air that chills your lungs and burns your throat. You love it, you live for it. 

    The mud that squelches beneath your paws, sinks into your toes and stays. A craving for the home. The human world wizzes by never making sense, for you are made for the cold wilderness. The mud splashes your fur. You are home and free. 

    Hunger and survival are your gods, here you are meant to take and give to this world. 

presenting with thanatosis

     I once asked my father, hoping for some insight and advice. 'What do you do when someone dies?'. 

    The answer is nothing. You do nothing. 

Its true. When someone dies what can you do? sit and wait, stand in your grief and die as well?

    Really it boils down to you have to move on. Whether you want to or not, there is no option of stopping. You have to keep going. 

    Last month, June 28th, my partners father died. I think now about this advice. It feels like the world is strange and new. Thinking that someone who I knew and saw very often is now absent from the life I inhabit. 

    Of course the road to his death was very long and full of pain for everyone. Full of hope and waiting, good news only to be met with the option of death only. 

    He died before he made it to the hospital. His soul and life gone, just a corpse strung along to play the part. Once he woke up it became apparent. He was gone. 

    I think this was one of the few times I had seen my partner cry, and one of the few times I had cried so much I couldn't move. Its pain and grief. The mourning on my end must be over. I pray that whatever his last moments where, had only been good ones. That his soul is carried far into the other side and enjoys whatever he wills. 

      My fathers insight runs true. At some point someone must step in and finish the grief off. Currently that person is me. I grieve, but I must play the role of support and caregiver. I can be sad, but I must be done crying, so that others can have support so they may shed tears for him. 

    As I write this, worst always has happened. I wish to some degree, it had not been drawn out so long. I wish that they do not see him the way he is now. Playing being alive. A corpse sitting and breathing. 

    It is the death I do no wish people to see. The kind in which that they are no longer there. Eyes open but empty. They do not respond. 

    One day I will have that death too, I see it. I've seen it. I wish no one will see these deaths. No one who wishes to remember them as alive. 

    Its the reason people hide children away from death. 

I have requested that they shouldn't see him as he is now. However, for the mother and the son, it was too late. She saw him first when he woke. The worst time to be there. She will need the most support. I offer all I can for them. 

    That is one of the roles of being me. I will be the one who collects tears, and mends things when needed. I will be a courier for them, and will ensure they do not stop and die as well. I cannot let that happen. 

    I think that is one of the hardest parts of death. That lack of community, those who will help to ensure you are fed, clothed, warm and cleaned. Someone to ensure that you in your grief are not in turn dying. 

Metronome

 Time, it ticks by. 

Click

Click

Every hour, passing slowly. Passing fast when I don’t look. Now days it’s all I have to look at. The clock on the wall. It was a gift from a dear friend from not that long ago. I’ve kept it. I could bear to get myself to throw it away. 

Click

Click

At least I’ll always be able to keep track of the time. Only a minute behind. Hands slowly following each other in a series of never ending circles. Day in, day out. Never really going anywhere. Stuck in place, but always still moving. 

Sometimes, late at night, when darkness falls and the city goes to sleep.

Click

I think.

Click 

About what I plan to do with my life, but the answer is always. “I don’t know” I have never known. It strikes me now, that I still don’t. Even as my life nears an end. I wasted it. 20 years on earth and I have nothing to my name. 

click

click

And here the clicking comes back again. 

Its a count down. At least to me it is. Tomorrow my 24 hours will be up. 

i thought

 Authors Note: I originally wrote this during my first relationship. These are feelings I did not share to my partner at the time. Being aromantic this peom means a lot to me and I continue to constantly rewrite this one, and copy it on new note books.

I thought I never understood the concept of love. 

A language I could never speak

a test i cannot read, even though I had studied my materials. 

I thought I would never be able to love someone ever. 

broken, not meant for the society I was raised and studied for. 

When I am with you; just being you. 

I feel like I do understand love and how to love. 

it something that comes with breathing to you. 

second nature. 

I do not feel this breathe, this nature. 

i crave to do so. crave to feel the way you can feel. 

i understand i love, 

and so i think i love you

Passing Time

    I’m draped over this bench, it's been days. I think. A quiet garbled voice is heard over the intercoms. I let my hand fall to the ground, the ground below is smooth although it's caked in grime. I pull my hand away with a shudder. Disgusting. Slowly I begin to sit up, my bones and muscles ache in protest. Who knows how long I’ve been lying down. The room is green and I can hear the sounds of machines, loud and clanking with an occasional whooshing noise above. The lights here are yellowed with age, it reminds me of the subway stations at my hometown; wherever that might be. 

    The longer I sit on this small bench the more I feel at home. The tiles while covered in grime are unsurprisingly covered in papers, lost flyers and wrappers from food. This place reeks of mildew. The scent fills my nose and makes my eyes water, I could probably cry if I wanted to. Letting out a sigh I sit and wait some more. An invisible wind billows and smothers my face. It carries the reeking stench. I hear the garbled voice again, although this time it's clear and I can understand it. 

    “The train comes around again, in 1 hour,” Train? This is a train stop? I peer around looking into the open ceiling. A labyrinth of pipes hovers above me, and the occasional lamp wire, I see no signs of a speaker. I stand up ready to move out of the way of the passengers of the train. I’m going to wander this place, for surely it can’t all be as covered in dust. 

Surely this is not where I have to wait, It feels rather unfair. To wait in a grimy shallow building, only to wait for an equally grimed-up train. In some corners I could see the dust build-up, surprisingly I couldn't find any crumbs or mouse droppings. I jiggle my leg, I’m impatient, at least the tram will arrive soon.

    I comb my hands through my hair, it's rough. I pace around the small station. I’m trapped, but I think I’m starting to come around to it. I’m like a mouse who has accepted its fate in the face of a snake. My limbs are taught from sitting so long, and I feel weary. I try to rub the fatigue from my eyes. I rub until my skin burns raw. I’m tired. More tired than I’ve ever felt in my life. 

    Sometimes when I was young, when I was this tired, I would crawl to my mother and sleep in her arms. This is a first, I think to myself. Memories flood through me. Up until now, I’ve never had a thought like this. Its disorientating, like I’m living in someone else's body, and my brain was shoved into theirs, only now I suddenly remember I had a childhood, a mom. I quickly start walking, I do not want to stay here, not like this. With nothing but thoughts, its hard to ignore. I pray the train arrives sooner then expected.

A quick rundown of the small area tells me that there is nothing that resembles stairs, however I do get a better look at the room. Its dimly lit, with various degrees of grimy layers. The pipes and rails are half rusted. The floors grip my feet and let go with a loud squelch. 

    It's dirtier than I thought.

    I hear a distant noise, it's like nails on a chalkboard. I pause any movements and await its arrival. I hold faith that it is not something to bring me my end. I catch sight of it nearby the worn-down bench, that was my home for a day, as it screeches its multitudes of wheels. The tram is bright chrome. Its clean sterile-ness is strange, and it bears no marks of stains or rust. Out of place in this station.

    “Train has arrived, all boarding board now,” The loudspeaker once again garbles to life. I look up trying to see where it comes from. I peer at the train, gripping the railing to upright myself, the train has bright lights one currently in the window. Hurriedly I make haste for the doors, but I quickly stop once I reach the first window. Bright orange light shines through. It cuts through the musty lights. Inside I spot strangers' shadows. They hold drinks and laugh, it’s a party in there, I can see them spilling drinks, eating food. It looks warm, and the couches seem comfy. Is this it? I think to myself. Is this where I am to go? My short life here on the small platform, while dirty and full of muck, it was strangely home-like. This sterile steel monster before me, holding out its warm friendly contents like an angler fish holds out its light. 

    I feel rage bubble through me, I spent so much time in this disgusting place only for it to be just a party on this train. This party, which feels superficial, somewhere where who I am, who I was, what I did, doesn't matter. I refuse for this to be the end, how could I wait so long or something so simple. I want to yell and hit the tram, but I know that it will not respond to my pleas. 

    Perhaps I am meant to be the prey of the angler fish, prey to the snake. To be left from this world, to live in comfort and my days filled with pleasure. 

Authors note: can you tell when i wrote this and when i wrote the last post i had a theme going on? this was for a short that had to be more descriptive of a place over telling a story. i super enjoyed this one and plan to come back some day and work on filling it out more.