She shines down and offers Her silvery support. He retreats into Night’s comforting arms, threatening to come back tomorrow.Īs daylight turns to dusk, my mind burns with a single thought: “Dig deeper.” The Sun laughs at me, for I have found nothing: no bones, no boxes, no clues. I lift spade after spade of root, rock and soil. Only that I’m familiar with It, and I’m not sure I want to be. I have listed to It before.īut I do not remember when or how or why. As I ram it into the moist dirt, a warm, familiar feeling washes over me. My foot takes its place on the blunt end on the spade. I clutch the handle and force its rusty tip into the earth. The shovel calls to me like a forgotten lover. “Okay,” I whisper as I hang the weed cutter on my belt. It feels good - necessary - a sign I am heading in the right direction. Their flowery corpses bring color and shape to my madness. Soon I am covered in the remains of dandelions, thistles, bluebells and tiger lilies. I grip the tool’s paint-chipped ends and attack the healthy plants until they bleed. I’m not sure why, but I feel guilt weighing upon my chest like a marble statue.īefore I know it, the shovel is out of my hands it’s been replaced with a small weed cutter. Everywhere I look, I see the dried husks of long, stringy grasses and brown daisies. My backyard is filled with weeds and wildflowers that compete for sunlight and water. I head over to my rotting woodshed and grab a rusty shovel. I bite down hard, defiantly, because It doesn’t care that my stomach is empty. I choose this particular fruit because I like the way my teeth bite through its tough, red skin. My breakfast consists of a large, juicy apple. I roll out of bed and dress quickly: khaki shorts, black t-shirt, baseball hat. It attaches itself to my skull like a giant leech and feasts upon my brain, sucking my common sense dry. Not if I want my head to be clear, to belong to me once again. It seems I have no choice - none at all - but to listen to It. Yet, the Voice never changes its calm, serious tone. I try to tell It to stop, but It won’t listen.Īs each minute passes, Its pleas are more frequent. The words creep in between my waking thoughts, insisting that I dig. It speaks to me through shadows and sunbeams, reflections and dreams. The Dig - illustration by Miko - click to enlarge
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
Details
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. ArchivesCategories |