It is hard climbing out of the center. It is the rock that keeps me and draws me inward. It is the red rock that draws me back inside. Inside the glow of my blood is red, red that is lonely and dark. Dark red. It draws me into myself I don’t understand outside anymore. Why do I dig myself out? Isn’t this enough? Isn’t this small room that I’ve made enough?

Blood seep out from the millions of tiny lacerations impinged on my tender fingertips by the rock’s million razor edges. It hurts when I struggle against the rock. It is a long, hard going out and I’m still inside. My fingers bleed and my body aches. The moving rock has become a useless disease, a compulsive motion, an ache to add meaning to this existence, this digging my self out.