If it is a part, it is a piece, and it is a maybe long-rambling but yet essential component. And dry but florid, shallow but reaching, a part of the composite of being. This dryness: I am alone. Extended: I do not conceive of myself as a part of the company of others even while engaged. This shallow: I abhor other human beings. Reaching: I lack the ability to fully engage and identify and consort with sentient beings of my specific taxonomy.
It’s silly, though. I don’t not not do these things. I’m fairly adjusted (I think). The wind brings over these clouds, and this heavy mist, and the dreary over-saturated wet, and it gets soggy, heavy. My boots are heavy. My head, bowing down, is heavy. My feet slide in the mud. My torso heaves, contracts, extrapolates our balance, corrects and steadies. I am upright. My tracks are larger than usual, though. Gravity is stronger today.
The truth of this world is that it is a scoot. Scoot here, there. There are no solid tracks. The path you lay before you, it will not be. The rain will come, you will slide. You will scoot from side to side. You will scramble. You will grab a hold of things which have no tether and they will come undone. Grasping, gripping, sliding, falling, again at the base with strange vegetation in your hand. It is the way of things and how we build. Because we only know how to build because we know how not to build. And we do not build on mud.