I’m neck deep in vise-like quicksand. The people perched over on solid ground witness my struggle, but they just yell at me to pick myself up from the bootstraps and walk away, kicking up dried tears from the trail as they go.

I’m vaguely aware that my ancestors lived harmoniously with the soil, but that land was paved over long ago. Besides, I can’t speak the languages in which they recount their history or their knowledge to me. The other side of the family tells me que hay que conquistar y salvar esta tierra, followed by ramblings about some reina or other that I’ve learned to tune out. I’ve no appetite for dominating anyone else, nor am I terribly keen on religion, so that’s also a wash. I know they’re trying to do right by me, but maybe the paths I walk are just too ensnaring and unfamiliar for them to know how to help.

I’m left on my own to wade through terra infirma, where every move I make is too this or not that enough to do anything other than pour further weight into my shoes. For now, it’s best I sit still to keep from drowning in the silt.

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