(credit: Josh Summers, http://www.flickr.com/photos/joshsommers/1785506450)
The trees surrounding me are like four severed forearms, elongated fingers reaching far above my head, but still an eternity from the sky. Perhaps they will be satisfied with tearing holes in reality where they can and I think they have already done so, because when the wind blows I glimpse a void behind the foliage and I can feel it sucking me in. And I wonder how the rest of the forest can seem so unaffected. The dripping from the trees mingling with the bird song in the air, the smell of moist earth, a ray of sun peeking out from behind a could and making a rainbow in a cobweb filled with pearls.
How can this world be torn?
I have to move or I will be dragged into nothing, so I climb the muddy hill behind me. I slip and slide and get grimy hands, but even as I near the top I sink deeper into the hole that I dug for myself. I don’t expect your sympathy, after all I could have let the spade stay in the shed, but I hope you understand how hard it can be to clamber out once one has reached the bottom. Not that I expect you can see the hole. I could try showing you, if you want, but there is a risk of me pulling you down instead of you helping me out.
seanbidd
/ November 14, 2014Have been to the bottom of a well, where much is improbable, but all is possible.
W. R. Woolf
/ November 14, 2014Sounds like a nice well, a well of possibilities?