There’s mud flowing through my veins, calling me to slow down and visit ancient times, to hunt the riddle that has been in my family for eons, to solve that part of the cosmic puzzle that we unknowingly have always been the keeper of.

But what if my piece doesn’t fit? What if time has changed the edges of the jigsaw beyond recognition? What if I’m carrying a copy and the original has been lost, back in the days? What if everything is ready but I’m not?

What if I’m not up to the task? What if I get lost, or bored – or distracted? What if I freeze? What if I don’t want to? What if the puzzle is not a puzzle after all?

I’ve just inherited mud.


Todays #ThursdayDoor is dedicated to Manja, because it’s one of the old Ljubljana holiday pictures I promised her to dig up. It’s better when it’s properly scanned, but I had to work with my selfie camera. I think these doors were in the city center, but it’s been a loooooong time ago that I made the picture so I’m not sure.

The poem could be called a prose poem. Except for that those don’t have line breaks. So it’s not.

More doors can be found at the blog of our door keeper, Norm.

4 thoughts on “Mud

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