Into the Sea · nothing makes sense
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 saturates with water and turns to mud. My feet begin to sink, inch by inch I am wasting away.
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. 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 howling, 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