The Digger

You dig. You dig and dig and dig. You dig deeper, to dig a hole, maybe a slough, maybe a tunnel, maybe a canal. Regardless of the reason behind your vigorous actions, you dig on. Because if you stop digging, you won’t be able to pick up your shovel again. There won’t be enough strength left inside of you to lift a finger. You will sit just like that, propped against the wall of dirt you have built around you, unable to move, uneager to move. Inertia will seep inside you. You will lose your will and strength altogether.

So you dig.

Beads of sweat form on your forehead and trail down your nose. They dangle on the tip of it until after one wide sweep at the ground, when they plummet to the ground and wet the bed of dry dirt beneath your feet. Panting and unspoken curses leave your lips. You are past the stage of tired. Fingers bruised and marred, you delve deeper into the trance of the repetitious labor. Though your aching muscles scream for rest and burnt skin shrieks for you to stop, you refuse to listen.

So you dig.

Why, though, do you dig? Why are you digging? Why are you not stopping? What is so bad about stopping, anyway? How worse could it get once you halt and sit around to close your eyes for a fatigued slumber?

The answer is: to refrain from seeing the sky.

To prevent yourself from looking up.

To block the clear, happy blue disrupting your retina.

To not let yourself be cast into the shadows that come after a false sense of hope visits you.

So you dig.

In order to cast yourself in the shadows before the false sense of hope betrays you.

In order to block the clear, blissful blue laughing in your face and urging you to ‘come up’.

In order to prevent yourself from raising your gaze.

To neglect the splendor of the sky unfolded above the hole you have dug for yourself.

Time passes, and so does your energy. The shovel’s shaft slips once in a while from your sweat-slicked fingers, haze shrouds your vision, and knees buckle from the unseen weight on your shoulders. You cannot even let out a sound anymore. You are desperate beyond measure, but you purse your lips as you know that no one will hear and you wish for no one to hear. You grit your teeth, clench your shaking fists, and use your shovel like a stick for support. Whilst your body is drained, your mind, though drifting away, is sturdy like a castle built upon a rock.

You must dig.

You must dig.

You must dig.

Until you collapse, ground kissing your cheeks, and dirt entering your soulless mouth.

Do not.

Look up.

At the sky.