Digging

He digs beneath the midday sun. He’s slick with sweat and short of breath. His body bent and broken.

The ground is dry and hard and yet unmarred.

But still he digs. He cannot stop. His blistered hands are raw.

Below there is a head, and in that head a mind, and in that mind is contained all things that was and were and had once been.

And so he digs, an endless toil. To find this head. To learn its truths. Truths to set him free, to put down the spade and raise his head and walk another path. A path of peace and rest ere the setting of the sun and the cool descent of night.

But the earth is hard, and yet unmarred, and so he digs beneath that eternal midday sun.

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