The Pit

I fell into the pit again today. The dark, vile, oppressive pit. Its walls are slick, the bottom is nothing but sticky mud that clings to you like tar. The air is thick and hot; if it wasn't so sour you could almost chew on it. I could see it as I approached. Smell its musty acrid odor, its foul rancour. I circled it a few times. Viewing the all too familiar nemesis, willing myself away from it.

I didn't willfully fall into it, I never do. There was no conscious moment of decision but rather I was pushed. Or pulled. Dragged by unforeseen forces of emotion, frustration, and despair. Falling into its tomb-like embrace. I thrashed and wailed. Eventually finding the inner peace to climb out. But the damage had been done.

Like an obtuse souvenir I shared the sticky tar of despair, that angry maligned goo, with the ones I love. How much will it stain them? Will it pollute them and pull them inextricably towards pits of their own? Will they be able to cleanse themselves of it before it's too late?

I hate that pit. I wish I could fill it in, but alas, I am destined to visit it again soon.