In my usual style, I have once again neglected my blog. However – I made numerous attempts to return and this was one of them. I started this on a very lonely night in November and on a festive night in December I found it again. I’ve finished it off (sort of), but it’s still a bit of a nonsensical drabble. Enjoy!
It was November and the weather was bitter. Autumn had passed without comment and now winter had arrived with a flourish. It had been raining for a week and the wind engulfed them as they fought to their stations. Their task was simple – just keep digging.
As the winter drew on, the task got harder. The cold made the ground an icecube to work with and if it wasn’t the cold, it was the continual showers making the ground slushy and hard to even stand on. But it was their task – in life, and it seemed from the repetitiveness of it, in death. The women envisaged themselves continuing once their soul had left their physical form.
Some argued however, it was their physical form that was the problem. It was that that gave them the task of digging and digging. Some were successful – they found the bottom and they were left to live in the ditch they’d dug. But this rarely happened straight away – they had to stumble on rocks and fall through false floors. It was policy to keep checking that your bottom was indeed solid before you began to build your home.
Some unfortunately never made that home. They’d either give up, walking away from their station and staying in the state they were, or they’d keep digging, trying hundreds of different ways to find the bottom of their ditch. Of course, the more desperate they got, the more difficult the task became.