2. Slogging

So I was doing the rounds today and got to thinking. What am I doing? Sure, mud is cool and all, but what am I getting out of this?

I've actually had this conversation with myself quite a few times over the past years. I've been all over the place, to hundreds of bogs of verying properties, and eventually it all starts to get oi old. Once in a while I stumble on an odd example of flora or fauna that entertains me for a while, but it in the end it's just another entry in the log. The interminable log. Line after painstaking line of scientificly formatted data, bereft of life and feeling. I've tried injecting a little humor before but that's always frowned upon. I don't want to put my paycheck at risj risk.

Don't get me started on my social life. At first I enjoyed the solitude. I reveled in the seeming connection with the mists, the primordial contact of my boots dragging throug h the silt; but then I realized that this job isn't exactly a beacon of welcoming. People are put off by the smell (as I've mentioned before) as well as my ideas of society as described in muddy metaphors. I haven't gone on a date in at least 3 years... my memories have gone a bit muddy. Damnit there I go again. The same old words pervading my sentences, dragged from the mire of my wanderings.

I know there must be a purpose to all of this. Tomorrow I'm heading out to some place in Canada to check out some bog in a subarctic region. I can't imagine what the hell I'm supposed to find there, except more of the same. Just a little colder. I'd better pack some fleeces.

-- Scott Sluggwood-Graymire