I threw you a line as you sank in the mire and you looked at it as if it was too short, too thick, not made of enviromentally friendly hemp. You touched it like you were allergic, like if you held it you would end up covered in a rash, all warm and itchy. You preferred the sucking cold closeness the bog offered.
I suppose after your initial shock at it's lack of solidity you grew used to the way it clung to your every curve, how it shifted to accommodate your breathing.
Should I stay and watch you slowly succumb to the deep pull of your situation or should I fetch a plank of wood and walk on out to you in order to place a foot on your head, to push you down with one motion, so as to save me the ordeal of watching your slow and painful descent, and to save you the need to splutter with panic at that moment when you realise this is for good?
How did you find this patch of quicksand in such a big jungle anyway? Of all the paths that cut through it's density you chose one that you'd seen people never come back from. The grasses and low bushes only scratch slighty if you dare to forge a path yourself, to leave the beaten track to the beaten ones who need it. Were you going that fast, speeding, on the heels of the one in front, who followed the one in front, who'd lost sight of the leader life-times ago? So intent on the view of your predecessors achilles that you failed to check whether they were doing any different to you, their blind head-long rush nothing but an attempt tp keep up and in step.