Question about the ring

I cling to this soaked landscape, which is impossible to name the forest - the forgotten attempt by God to fall down the dryness, left halfway. The legs draw water, soaked shoes flutter over the ankle rhythmically and indifferently. The air is filled with rotting leaves and wet earth tannins, and each inhalation looks like a sip of cloudy tea, standing tea. Thoughts go beyond each other, stick like a wet cobweb, without shape, without direction, only harsh, metal obstruction of relays in the cerebral cortex - neither forward nor backward or forth.

The silence here is deceptive. Under the film of aquar, black and shiny like beetle, a slow, bubbling life boils. Someone dies to allow the other to rot more slowly. Time melted in this mass, turning into a peat, compressed into layers, where mosquito swarms are stuck and last -fern. Everything is at the same time - the past and the opportunity, mixed into a thick, formless present.

I try to catch at least one clear line, but the horizon is hiding behind the fierce branches, and the sky is just a gray print in the water. I lean on to see better, and on the cloudy surface, my own reflection throws. Not the face - just the outline, melted, torn to moving stains, like an old map. Eyes are two dark aquarians. Mouth - a notch on the surface of the sludge. And then, without any sound, in one of those silence cracks between two heartbeats, everything stops. Not outside. Inside. Insignificant but absolute certainty - as if under the viscous mossy cover, the foot would suddenly find a stone.

The brain is not overwhelmed by the thought - the sensation. The realization that the legs, all the time looking for a solid bottom, finally stopped. Because the bottom is not. Never was there. And with this renunciation, things change. This fatigue, this clip, this biting air is no longer a burden that needs to be stretched. It is the fabric itself. Basic material.

Suddenly I realize. This is my swamp. And the question is no longer like going out of it. And what to do with that one, dazzling white ring, which has spread to the dirty water surface directly in front of me for no reason?

My first instinctive idea is to touch. Picked. To save. Turn it into meaning, proof that dirt can give birth to something pure. But the hand does not rise. In the cerebral cortex, in the same place where the metal relay was previously interrupted, now silence. And in that silence, the answer is born, simple and heavy as a stone I finally found under my feet.

Nothing.

You don't have to do anything with it. It does not need to be protected or denied. It does not need to be understood. This ring is no exception. It is not a miracle that deny the swamp. It is the swamp itself, which has become visible for a moment. Her culmination and promise of a slow, bubbling life. The promise that everything germination will one day return to a thick, formless mass.

I smile. For the first time, too unknown how long. Not joyously. Just stating the fact.

I no longer have a way out. It is enough for me to watch.