Excavation

There’s a hole in the ground. A perfect cylinder with smooth dirt walls. I drag my hand along the wall; the earth is rich, moist and dark.

On a good day I can see the sky above. It doesn’t seem that far away. I might still get out of here. On a bad day all I see above me is a pinhole of light. It’s so distant there’s no point to even thinking of getting out. The soil I am standing on is saturated with water and turns to mud. My feet begin to sink, inch by inch I am wasting away.

Later, I am standing in an empty tunnel. My body casts a long shadow on the floor—yet there’s no light. I make out the arc of the tunnel’s ceiling, I follow its outline, it stretches far into nothing — growing into an endless cascade of hollow rock.

I look down and the floor has turned translucent. I don’t know how I can see; it’s dark but my eyes are illuminated by my desire to make sense of this vision. It’s all in my head, I know, but it’s so real. So bleak and full of despair. I don’t know if I am tired or alert. I can hear the wind howl at me, throwing itself at the rock face. It’s trying to get to me. What does it want? To whip my face with rain? To soothe a humid body with a cool and gentle breeze? To sweep me away from the hole I’ve dug?

Thursday, 17. February, 2011