I don't know if I stepped back. Or if it's the ground, once again, that changed beneath me. Here, nothing distinguishes a step from a thought. Nothing anchors. Nothing strikes. The marsh erases all friction, all lines of rupture. There is no opposition between what I decide and what happens to me—only a slow gliding, a troubled coincidence between my breath and the world.
This place is not meant to be crossed. It is meant to recognize what insists on remaining.
I no longer know if I'm advancing or being carried. But I feel, still, that there are areas I don't dare set down.
Not because of danger. Not even because of doubt.
But because those places… do not ask.
They wait.
Here, everything that doesn't speak… remembers.
Smoother sheets. Calmer. Too calm. Stretches where silence thickens. Where the air becomes clammy, stretched, suspended, as if the world were holding its breath. Mute zones. Saturated. With an ancient calm, not peaceful but loaded.
