Cavernous
Sometimes, I like to imagine myself in a cave. Humid and dank, the temperature rises with summer but sinks in winter. Why it is humid I can't tell. The location doesn't matter. By the sea or in the mountains. All the same to me, as long as its humid and dark. It would be nice to have a cave by the ocean though, to hear the beating of the waves on the bedrock. To realize no matter how hard they hit they'll never reach you. Not you, not in your cave. Not the cave you were born in.
This is the only world I know.
I'd probably have an exit somewhere. It's nice to have one, just in case. But, I'd like it to be all dark – the exit far away from me. All dark.
My cave would be deep, as deep as I can build it, with a high vaulted ceiling. Stalagtites would gather up the humidity and send it dripping to the floor. Big, ominous stalagtites. Growing and growing, driving their sharp edges ever downwards. At some point I'd imagine they'd fall down, but I wouldn't know when – it doesn't really matter anyway.
Down there I'd work all day, rest all night. Not that time would matter in the dark. No, I'd simply work when awake, rest while asleep. A simple life.
When I picture this in my mind, it is usually a salt mine – like the one in Krakow, Poland. The wall firm to the touch, but soft 'neath my pickaxe. A pickaxe would be my only possesion. I'd carve my way in one direction, not sure which way I'm going – perhaps towards the exit, or further into the mountain.
Sight it useless down there, just as it is a folly on the surface. It aims only to deceive you. I would instead focus on my other senses.
My ears would trace the dripping of the water and the flowing of the underground streams. Earthquakes would reverbate through the rock and I would marvel, not able to understand what it was. I imagine that sometimes I'd catch some noise from above. Perhaps the sound of Thunder or some bats skittering through one of my corridors – or in a cave of someone else's making.
My touch would trace the walls, soaking up the wetness of the rock. They'd feel their way, seperate the hard rock from the soft. They would recognize the shaft and handle of my pickaxe, the feel as it hit rock.
My tongue would taste salt.
Come to think of it, I don't know what I would eat. What tastes would be available to me? No, that is how it must be. No food in my cave. I would have no tongue, no way to form any coherent meaning with my voice. I'd be mute. I'd work my way through the rock silently, with no food to sustain me. Perhaps I'd not need it. Better that way.
Along the way I'd create marvels – marvels like you have never seen. From the rock would emerge true, tangible beauty. A beauty your eyes doesn't need reaffirm. There in the dark, without eyesight I would create murals and angels, motifs and abstract landsacpes. Snapshots of a world far removed from mine. My hands would trace the bedrock and imagine shapes and figures twisting around in there, waiting to be freed. With my tool, I'd release the shapes from their prison. I'd carve out representations of Jesus, democracy, Napoleon. Everything – all from the surface of the bedrock.
However, I'm never alone in my cave. No, there's always someone else there. Of coure, I'd be unable to see them, but I'd not need sight to know they were there. Their presence is always betrayed by a scent, carried past by a breeze from an exit unknown to me; or their step, betrayed between the heavy drops of the stalagtites. This person or thing would trace the lines I'd made and witnesse all the beauty of my creation. The curves and shapes would lend them away.
Like this I'd toil every waking moment past. All the while the individual would be tracing my progress, all the while lending it purpose and intent.
Meanwhile, the people above would waste away days of their own. Light would give way to dark and vice versa in a neverending cycle. People would go to work, breed children and swim in pools. They'd go on holidays I imagine, perhaps to some exotic country with big statues and strange people.
Of course the people above had no idea what they were doing. I knew this. They had no purpose, no dreams or hope – only the mundane and trivial of surface lives. Generations would pass by, wars happen, people die.
At some point, it would all be revealed. Age would matter more down there, my muscles sorer – my mind wearier. Of course there's those Stalagtites looming overhead, threatening to pierce me through and through.
Two things could happen.
Either, I'm busy carving out a really nice piece of rock, only to have it crumble in front of me. The dark, damp rock would give way to light. The exit. I'd emerge to a world unseen, a life unlived. My remaining days spent in front of some TV, chasing some Girl or traveling the world – curious of all that I missed in my cave. I'd die incomplete, saddened by all I did not get to do. The masterpiece I proved unable to create.
The other option is that I hit true bedrock, or my axe breaks. I am unable to continue further and realize that all is lost. If such a thing where to happen, I'd set about freeing myself from the walls.
First, I'd touch my body, memorizing all the shapes and the contours. Then I'd find a suitable spot, a nice soft piece of rock near the end of my cave. All the while my passenger would be looking.
There, I'd toil and tear until the work was complete. I'd lend my likeness to my cave, yes. A testament to my work, that altar would remain deep in my tomb – way after I'm gone.
Perhaps, it's a small hope, but perhaps someone would find the exit – or is it an entrance? They'd weave their way innwards, torches in hand. Pale, starved flames would witness my creation. Lines upon lines of creation – people, towns, motifs, love, fear and hate – revealed to the masses in lines of salt. I' d be a god then. Some immortal being, bereaved of the sight and tools to live a full life, but immortal nonetheless. My work would echo across the ages, people wouls come to marvel at it; Tremble at its magnificence, quiver at its sadness.
The explorers would find my passenger kneeling by my old, broken body. I'm not sure what my passenger would be or how it would look like, but I imagine it as a nice, young woman. Beautiful and ageless. She'd weep by my body till the explorers found me. Deep in the cave they would discover her kneeling by my body in the flesh and my likening on the wall.
In my cave I'd be a god made flesh.
Vale!
