Half Woman, Half Swamp
On the night when the moon forgot its reflection,
the swamp woke with a voice.
It whispered into the fog,
and the fog carried the whisper
until it reached a woman named Evelina.
🤎
One evening, when the water turned black as ink,
Evelina crossed its edge.
She was not afraid of the dark.
She was tired of pretending she was not part of it.
🤎
Evelina had always felt drawn to places that breathed slowly -
places where time bent and nothing was fully explained.
When she stepped into the swamp, the water parted for her feet,
as if it had been waiting.
🤎
The swamp shimmered with hidden life.
Frogs sang old songs.
Dragonflies stitched light into the air.
Roots moved beneath the surface like thinking creatures.
🤎
Evelina stayed.
She learned that the swamp did not reward purity.
It honored truth.
Rot fed roots.
Silence fed wisdom.
What died was never wasted.
🤎
The swamp spoke without words.
It taught her through snakes and lilies,
through fog that erased direction,
through nights so still they felt like spells.
🤎
Slowly, Evelina changed.
Her skin carried the scent of water.
Her thoughts tangled like vines.
Her strength stopped asking for permission.
🤎
Half woman.
Half swamp.
🤎
She understood then what the old magic knew:
Nature does not exist to be conquered or controlled.
It survives through balance, decay and deep connection.
And so do we.
Nothing lives alone.
Nothing grows without borrowing from something else.
Even darkness has work to do.
🤎
When Evelina finally stepped away,
the swamp did not release her completely.
It lived behind her eyes.
In her refusal to rush.
In her loyalty to what is alive and fragile.
🤎
Those who hear this story are warned - and taught:
If you cut yourself from nature,
you cut yourself from your own power.
Care for the living world,
and it will teach you how to endure.
Forget it,
and you will forget yourself.
🤎
Remember this, says the Swamp:
you breathe because something else breathes.
You grow because something else decays.
You live because nothing lives alone...