Like sludge at the bottom of a dried up well.
Hundreds of feet of earth towers over me, the opening, a pinprick of sky, far beyond my reaches.
My buckled body, folded in on itself, this deep dark mud slicked over forearms, streaked across my face, smeared on knocking knees.
An out-breath. A shattering.
My buckled body with no reach left in it. just the out-breath, that sinks me deeper into this earth, this desolate mud-hearth.
The earth will hold me when nothing else will. I sink lower into my dugout throne, willing my skin to melt into this mud, that my body would meld with the earth and never have to take an animate form, this form, again. That I would never have to unfold my limbs, engage muscles and articulate joints, open my mouth or heart.
If I just lie here and sink further, I will become formless, obsolete, obscured by darkness, nothing, one with nothing.
But this hole is good for more than just obscurity. Down here I am brooding, I am rooting, I am building. Tiny, microscopic, invisible, slow and still, magical, growth. This earth is fertile and regenerates life from death. It’s what earth does.
Down here I can scream and shout and shake and no one will hear me. Down here I shed my snake skin, shed the remorse and death and dying of another ending. Let that old skin fall away, watch it decompose into dust, into dirt, into earth, into the me that I am no longer, the me that is one with nothing. The me that is one. Down here, I am one.