I wish I had four rivers of milk in my city, but we only have one solitary river of murk. When I was a child, my only friend dared me to do all sorts of things to it. Closer and closer, each challenge brought me towards the murk.
I was scared, but understandably so! All children would be. The murk wasn’t just running “water,” down a dingy passage way, but it was alive. Bubbling, shaking, rotting, crying; the murk can’t be explained in words like this. It almost felt like it was just a big blanket over a crowd of actors, and they all tried their hardest to get someone to notice them- to lure someone close enough to pull off the blanket and fly them away to the life they’d always dreamed of.
This was obviously not true. The murk was the murk. The fish were the fish. My friend was my friend, and the dares were irrefutable.
When my hand hit the surface of the murk, I wanted to scream and cry. I wanted to pull my hand away and curl it into my body like a snails eye. I wanted to cut it off and never see it again. I couldn’t, though. Of course I couldn’t. My friend guided my fingers to scoop a handful of it up, and brought it to my lips.
It was warm.