I don't remember how I came to be here, it was so long ago. I have trouble remembering anything now, maybe there is something in the food, I don't know. I have come to know great peace, it's not like I have a lack of free time to contemplate here.
My room (for that is what I have come to call it) is comfortable enough, most of the time it is dry and cool. It can be a problem when the rains come, but I have learned to cope. About a year ago (I think) I scraped some of the dirt on the floor into a small mound in one corner, it is high enough to keep me dry most of the time. I don't know who it is that drops the food and water into the room every day, I never see a face, only a hand. I once waited by the hole to look, but they didn't come. Eventually I was hungry enough to move away, and the food came soon after.
There are some marks on the wall beside me as I sit, I can dimly remember making those marks myself. I can remember wanting to count the periods of light and darkness for some reason, but I don't remember why. There are an awful lot of them, I must have been quite persistent when I made them. I was much more angry then, something about freedom continually hammered at my mind but that is gone now and I am thankful. Peace is better I think. I can't be happy, but at least I can be calm.
My room is made of earth. I have an earthen floor, solid earthen walls, and a ceiling that is completely made of earth as well. There is a solitary circular hole in the roof, through which food, water and sunlight pass. There is another hole in my room, in the opposite corner of the room to the hole in the ceiling. This one is in the floor and leads into a deep hole. I use it for my wastes, I know not where it leads. I have toyed with the idea of jumping down it sometimes, but only when my sadness begins to drown out all else. Today I have my sadness in check.
I am probably underground, judging at least by the cool touch of the walls. I doubt there is any sunlight warming the other side of them. That's fine, it doesn't matter anymore. I eat, I drink, I sleep and I think down here. There are certainly worse fates that could befall a woman.
I don't remember what I was wearing when I was thrown down the hole that keeps me so fascinated now. It doesn't matter, the clothes have been gone for a long time. They went from cover to shreds so quickly it seemed, and they soon found their way down the waste hole. This is not really a problem. I don't entertain guests and the temperature down here rarely changes. I think that was done deliberately as an attempt to make things monotonous for me. Instead it provides me with security, and a sense of stability while I sit and think.
There are days when I wish I could remember what my name is. I guess it isn't important, who would I tell it to? Names exist to separate us, give us identity in a sea of others just like us. I am a single drop, all alone. I no longer need a name. Still, sometimes I wish I could remember it just the same. Maybe it would give me a hint of what I was, what my life was like before coming to this room.
I look over my skin from time to time. I get surprised that it's not paler. I sit under the hole, drinking in the sun every chance I get, but I hadn't thought I was getting enough to keep the colour in my skin. I don't think it is a trick of the light, or the pigmentation effect of being in constant contact with the soft dirt walls and floor in my room. Once a week I get a bucket of water with my food, and I even get a small supply of soap. I am careful to scrub myself properly, and wash out my hair as well. It is important in here to keep clean. Anyway, I doubt it is the dirt. I think I am keeping my tan by basking in the warmth of the sunlight.
I have truly come to love the sun. I can understand why primitive cultures worshipped it as a God. It banishes the cold, and brings forth life. My food always comes while the sun is out, and on colder mornings when I wake up I can crawl to the stream of sunlight flooding into my room, and lie down where it strikes the floor. As I feel the sunlight warming me after a cold night, I think I come closer to knowing bliss and happiness than any other time I can remember. The sun is what dries out the floor of my room after the rains. It is what brings the sound of the birds calling to each other outside. It is also the one thing that reminds me that there is a world outside my room, and if it were not for that I could bring myself to worship it myself. Like all things, it is not perfect. Still, on colder days I find myself wishing I could fly, so that I could soar ever higher towards it, higher and higher until it consumed me in it's purifying heat. Like Icarus, I might fall to earth, broken but content that I had at least tasted the one thing in life that mattered to me.
Such flights of fancy don't hit me that often anymore. I think that in my depravation I have become an hedonist. I tend to live for the moments I spend basking in the heat, when I get my food or my washing water, those moments when I first start drifting off to sleep. Life is about moving between the few moments of pleasure you are granted. I can see that clearly now that I have had time to dwell on such matters. I use the memories of such moments of pleasure to carry me until the next one comes along.
Take for instance now. The morning has worn on, and the pre-dawn chill has finally worn off the room. It is now quite comfortable, but I want more. You will have to excuse me, I am going to take my next moment of pleasure. I am going to move into the light.
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