They aren’t vertical, they are crooked from its entrance.
Most of its light is hindered by dark shadows; shadows from the huge trees that sprung from its numerous angles. There are many, many of these curved entrances.
When scales fall from eyes, noticing no one is insight is inevitable; solo is the word. This is a one man’s battle. An entrance must be followed. If more than one’s name is known, this should be easy. Which one should be chosen? Is it the one right in front or, that one far to the north?
The clock doesn’t stop ticking; neither do the voices. There is no one but there are voices; loud, obnoxious, soothing, comforting voices, each fighting to pitch a tent in a circular, furrowed ashy surface.
What does it want? What does this furrowed surface, chiselled by an unseen being want? Should it show its white lines, which are laced with red vessels to another seemingly equal surface with a conventionally earned title? What should it do?
Years of countless words by many faces in a square like boxes uncovers nothing. What were they teaching? Who chose those words? I heard a Board. A Board who knew what words should be sprayed. A square like box was then set up, then the adults hastened feet to relinquish the burden of raising their off springs to them. They should have done better but they had been told this was the only way. Of course, it was a helpful way yet, highly limited. They should have known but paying a fortune seemed reliable.
So, as their young lashes flapped its hairy tails, the words flew into their hollows. It was a game of words; listen, scribble, memorize and rewrite on a white sheet. Same faces checked, those who could recall most, were labelled best.
Sadly, many of those words don’t usually come into play. How come these words don’t know? They should know, so what do they know?
Four, five, six that’s how many paths can be spotted. Should pretence, pretend and not choose? How did we get here? Oh I remember, the school bus stopped here, the driver said it was the last bus stop. First, fear and its neutralising venom come. It works only in those white lines; it can paint too. When you see its pictures, legs fail; its venom attacks only legs.
But if you paint from the well within, the one full of wisdom, then a map is born. A path hasn’t been chosen but at least, a map rests in hands now. Where is this well? it’s there but you dig first; it’s a one man’s battle.
Dig first? Yes, a drill every day would do.
Of course, the water will flow but drilling comes first. It will hurt, the intensity as it breaks through those layers will hurt. Sweat will flow, blood too; it will seem fruitless many times as multiple rocks will be hit. Rain will fall, the sun will shine.
Rest when back hurts but don’t stop. If you stop where will you go? How would you find where to go? Which map would you use?
There is also this strange path, it looks bright and tarred with numerous street lights. But it is not yours. Yours has to be yours, birthed from that well. This one is wide, pervaded with multiple pit falls, designed to be so. A great mickle of skulls trail it; a total sum of all those who gave up drilling and thought it too hard to continue. Still, they suffocate here. The skulls hustle and fight for space, digging is hard but this is harder and hotter.
Where are they going to? One pointed at a screen. They use a humongous screen; it speaks but not in words, in images. It tells them what they should do and how they should think. They gave up on their wells long ago now they have a screen, a screen with instructions.
What is a well?
a) A pit or hole sunk into the earth to reach a supply of water.
b) A shaft or hole sunk to obtain oil, brine, or gas.
c) A source from which something may be drawn as needed. (Merriam-Webster Dictionary)