What to expect is nothing compared to what is always hidden in the darkness of the unexpected. You mean your path is bright and clear in front of you, straight and even, until suddenly a hand shoots out and the firmness of the surface on which you step softens. The hand that grabs you by the ankle and grips it tightly, stops. You stumble and have to be careful not to fall, because you were rushing past, as always, when your hand shot out of a quagmire, grabbed your ankle and your other leg was already thrown forward. Suddenly you feel held. And the grip is firm.
Nails dig into your bare flesh. If you had put on the long trousers, you’d think cryptically, because then this hand wouldn’t have been able to hold you like that. It would have slipped off and you could have easily shaken it off, but this is how skin melts into skin, wet with sweat and greasy, clenching into a sticky film, and the nails are in your flesh, from which blood is loosening as if it made a difference as if it were ever different, and yet never the same, just because the foot turns red from the blood that flows from the wounds that tear the nails into the flesh, the tender, rosy one. This is how you pull on your leg, but the more you pull, the tighter the grip and the more sustainable the penetration of the nails. Not only that you cannot escape, the hand pulls your leg into the mud, which was previously solid ground. The sole of your shoe has already disappeared into it. Attention! You let go for a moment, relax the train. Perhaps because you think that the hand then lets loose, because you think that it must be exhausted at some point, because what can such a hand alone, how long can it hold on to a whole person who tries with all his strength To tear yourself away, because the hand is the only thing you see, and therefore you also think that the hand is your only enemy, or the whole. You only see the hand, how it rose so suddenly from the mud, and nothing more, and what you do not see does not exist either. “You don’t see me,” says the little child when it covers its eyes. “You are not there,” you say to what is not a hand and is still connected to this hand because you do not see it, just do not see it. Your enemy, you mean, is just this hand. Verily, the grip seems to be loosening because you are pretending not to fight it anymore. You cradle your hand in safety and then tear your leg explosively, but the hand reacts just as quickly and it keeps your leg, which is now separated from the rest of your body, without resistance and power, and the hand pulls it down into the Morass. You balance on one leg, look out of the corner of your eye, stunned, as your leg disappears, and the morass closes and becomes solid earth again. You could stay here now and warn anyone who passes by to pause to be careful, but instead you hobble on, forgetting that what to expect is nothing compared to what is always hidden in the darkness of the unexpected. Maybe it will be your arm that you are losing next, or your heart, but it probably wouldn’t matter.