Digging

         Searching in the ground for something buried long ago. Where to begin? How deep do I go? Keep hearing in my head, “The X marks the spot, The X marks the spot.” As if there could be some treasure. So much gravel in the way of sweet soil, it’s hard to get through. I just want to dig… 

         Just want the ground to give. When I dig. When I live. I find solace in the repetition. In the sedimentary depositions. What is my position on the friction of my mission? Well, the gravel sucks and the soil rocks, so much coal for Christmas socks. No crystals here, no emeralds neither. Not even a flash, of an ephemeral pleaser. Alone in my hole, the digger’s den. Far from the worries of women and men. The deeper I go, the closer to China. They should give me a hardhat and call me a miner…

        But I’m not going back up, not in a million years. Not until I’m dead and fossilized. Not until they have to go through a thousand layers just to excavate me. Not until they have to cut through all the gravel I did to get here. Just to find me. And wonder what I once was.