Swamp Philosophies. By CpSingleton © 2016
Today Matt Arthur Grey was a swamp. A morass of sludge and fetid matter. Everywhere his slits for eyes wandered he saw slime and septic water.
It used to bother him, days such as this.
He used to wave his arms and legs around in sheer panic, whilst getting nowhere fast.
That was until a funny-faced little wading bird landed near his screams and taught him that not all movement is productive.
It took him a while to register her meaning, because it was a rather revolutionary concept to his muddy lugs.
Then one day, at about 1:30 -2:40, he got it, so laid still.
And, do you know, my little breakdancers, it only went and worked, didn’t it? Yes, it did
After that, whenever the torrid quagmire rose up to stifle is night time beating and his daily this and thats, he stopped kicking and a screaming.
Now he’s almost prepared to be human, sometimes.
And that was his short tale.
Odd, but true.