Untitled

I keep digging, deeper and deeper in the sand. My hands calloused and raw, from the beautiful friction. My hands claw away in this barren pit of filth, searching for the answers to the questions that are so unfathomable in their metaphysical paradoxes that they cannot be uttered, let alone entertained. This few cubic centimetres inside my brain is not enough. As I dig further down, the sand continues to cave in, replacing the areas where meaning, knowledge and thought were once held in pockets; shrouding them, once again, in mystery. As new pieces of the puzzle are uncovered, others are undeniably lost. Before I know it the sun is setting and this space which consumes me is deathly cold. A single, delicate, glass teardrop winds its way from my vacant eyes, perching momentarily on my chin, before hurtling down to perdition. My hair is thinning and my hands . . . my hands are so worn that their sensitivity has faded to such an extent that I do not even feel the beads of blood materialising through the skin anymore, in a kind of gruesome, organic, polka dot. I need this pain to feel alive, to acknowledge the beauty of it all. I need to dig further, deeper faster to reach the ever elusive answers which will ultimately destroy me and set me free . . . but they always escape. Nevertheless I keep digging in vain hope. I can't stop, deeper, deeper, deeper, deeper, until I suddenly realise. I must know when to draw the line in this sand. To step back and walk away.

_________________________________________________________________

THIS IS NOT AN EXIT