The Dark Deep Hole

I look down at the ground and all I can see is the shovel in my hand digging some more. I can’t stop. I can feel all the adrenaline running through my veins. I am not sure why I am digging that fast or why I am doing it. No one was home. No one was around. It was just my garden’s chair swinging, the hole and myself.

As I dig deeper, I feel more free. I don’t know why. I don’t know how. I know it’s working. All the feelings that I had in me are finally free. I am finally sweating. I am finally tired. My arms hurt but I don’t stop. The mud hills around the hole get higher and higher.

Finally, I stop digging. “That’s enough,” my hands gesture. I can feel my legs taking me back to my room. I am running. I am rushing. What for? I don’t know.

I keep on collecting all the stuff laying around that was always messing up my life. Either is on the way, stumbling me or hiding really well what I have been looking for. All the empty perfume bottles, all the clothes I no longer wear, all the shoes I thought were so special to give away, and oh all the papers, all the papers laying around; all the memories. I collect them all. I collect them all in garbage bags.

I look outside for the garbage can and my heart hurts. My heart whispers, “You can’t through them away. They are going to collect them tomorrow, take them, use them or even recycle them for whole lots of new things. Don’t do it. They are so special to be thrown away; they are too special to be torn apart, to be vanished from the existing. It’s not the time yet.”

I can’t feel my hands and my legs, oh my legs, they grab me back to the hole I dug. My tears start running and they kept on assuring me, “Here it’s going to be safe. Here it’s going to last for long.”

I put them in the hole I dug. I feel hurt but I feel safe. My legs grabbed me back to my room. “Some more stuff to collect”, my hands kept on rushing me. I can hear my hands talk to me. They feel me. They don’t want to let go but they know it’s about time to unclutter this sluggishness, the sloppiness, the clutter sitting all around.

I start collecting and collecting; more garbage bags. More going back and forth. All until the room is almost empty. I can see the dust. I can see the little pieces left behind.

“But, it’s time to bury the memories and clean up what’s left. It’s time to paint a new color,” my eyes said.