I'm quite confident that you are aware of the unpublicized fact that mud has been known to attract itself, by various ingenious methods, to even the most pure of intent. Not just mud, like the kind you might see worms crawling out of after a night of heavy rain in a South American jungle. Nor is it like the mud children play with on Sunday afternoons in the park during autumn, but more of an oily type of mud. A greasy kind that shines just right for a moment to draw attention. A slippery kind that makes a person hard to be grasped (or, at least, makes it difficult for them to grab) and like a personality image, usually stays on your body, becoming dry and crusty (much like stale icing on a cake left out overnight, but far from sweet)--eventually making a person look worse than he would otherwise appear.

It was around the time that I had managed to free myself from the sea of this abysmal sludge (for the time being anyhow; seeing how it's as slick as it is, you'll find it would not be hard to slide back into), that I passed an associate of mine who sat blissfully chatting (babbling, really) in a side tunnel next to the smoke ring in our old, main dungeon of choice (well, choice-by-default).

He sat there wearing his black baseball cap clamoring on and on about giving some of the dust to an impeccable Virtue (who claimed to be a deity's creation) seated beside him through no fault of her own. So, I volunteered to rescue this natural beauty from the solicitation, for which she was appreciative. But, then she bolted away from all of us, the stained. Her flight was reminiscent of Bambi fleeing while They shot his mother. The kind of running derived from pure terror where you race on with your heart pounding, while It gets closer and closer behind you because you know that you don't really run as fast as you used to. You're out of shape and now your going to pay. And you know that you'll never get away so you should stop. Until you hear It again, and are you ever glad that you never quit running. You swear to go fast, as long as blood pumps through you, because you just can't let everything go yet. You pray to every god you ever heard of and then make up a few just for luck. A little longer and you'll be flying right off the planet, wow, what a headrush. The objects screaming by around you are blurred while your mind is in overdrive trying to focus on what's just ahead of you. Left, no, right. C'mon keep running.

Then you stop, taking a deep breath filling your lungs with sharply cold air. Returning next to quick, shallow pantings, you slowly turn your head around fully expecting it to come flying off as you twist only to look behind you and realize that It's not there. So, you relax (a little) feeling like a schmuck for ever having run so fast and so long from something which is not behind you at all. But then continue to get away by walking at a nervously quick pace (just to be safe).

And it was soon after the time She sprinted away, my fascination grew from a gnat-size bothering into a love-state (more of a quasi-love-state), just below the obsession level I hope to never ascend to (although the ascension seems more like falling, upwards perhaps but still falling). Thereafter, I have struggled to grip my surroundings so that I might use them to navigate my way without stars, to whittle away at the superficial grime on my person in order to get down to my mind. That girl is the major contribution to my current efforts to be clean, to be free from wallowing in the pig-sty, to be logical and crisp (almost there).

I've had to work hard under my self-imposed duress, but I've been able to walk (along with Her, that is). I feel an exalted euphoria by the very notion of an acceptance of my brushed off companionship (if it is indeed an acceptance, please pray for me) in spite of the Greek's pseudo-Aristotelian reaction and the frequent scoffings by the dirty. For I enjoy being cleaner and I like the effects of bleach--washing the mud Life splashes, to which She is immune.

Postscript: I don't know why I've always chased the white deer. The illusive animal is constantly out of reach, either by its own position, or by my self hinderance. I'm sure I don't enjoy the thrill of the chase, rather I find it depressing, so maybe it's more like I need to be the one chased. Do you like the mud? Good, I fell again.