There are no bogs, I tell myself.
There are no bogs or marshes left because I have waded through them all.
I have waded through them and am already at my sweet spot.
The sweetest possible spot that is so cloying saccharine sweet that I realize it is not a real spot at all.
It is a hollow.
A big fucking hollow that stretches unendingly ahead of me.
And I know that every step I take is towards this yawning stretching chasm with nothing but darkness inside.
The darkness of the night.
The night that gleams at me like a polished gentleman who knows the language of my soul and has read the book of my life.
The book of my life with all its versions.
And all its chapters, especially the unfinished ones with their torn pages and wounded characters.
The night that gleams maniacally at me.
Almost like the manic glitter in the eyes of my naughty brother when he used to upturn my papers and steal my pens.
The night that gleams at me with a blinding glare snatching away my vision and my sanity along with the characters that peopled my life.
The night that gleams with the expectations of a star-studded sky but instead is rewarded with a smoky inky blackness resembling a dirty puddle of muddy water.
The night that gleams with the overwhelming light of hope that the train to the life I seek is on its way here.
The very train whose tickets took me a lifetime to buy.
I have the tickets now.
But all those trains have left, leaving nothing but a trail of dark nights in their wake.