The mud is still on me
When I was 12 or 13 years old, I stood under the sun, feeling the mud bake and break on my body. I stood there with my feet buried in the mud of a purling brook. Dark brown, fluid mud I had carefully pasted onto my naked body up until my shoulders.
Embedded in mother nature, I squinted on the glorious meadows, the blue sky, and the defunct water mill nearby. The sun came to nibble at my sight, turning the dark brown fluid into a light brown cookie crust. The smell of grass, cows, earth, and freedom fed my will. My skin tightend as the mud dried and started crumbling. That was sensational and deserved a lot of giggles. I heard myself proclaim, "I will never be an adult". I stood there, and while I did, the mud kept on me, and I kept the mud on me by moving as little as possible. My younger cousin did not join my prediction. Staying only half-mudded, she was not sure whether to laugh with me, or at me. Some crumbling and a little tickle under my armit later, I left mother earth and took her message with me.