ghost castle

gravel

there's a wonderful person inside me, buried under a pile of rocks.

a bright, luminous person; smart, savvy; humorous and light-hearted; adventurous and romantic; creative and forthright; loving and forgiving; they're right there, underneath a massive gravel hill.

but how am i supposed to move it all? how am i supposed to free any part of myself besides the lifeless hand peeking out from under the stones, tempting me with its closeness, mocking me with its distance?

for a long time, i just mourned. i looked at the mound of gravel and i sighed. i would idly pick rocks from it and toss them away. when the wind blew i would stand atop the mound and pretend i'm flying. when the sun was setting i would sit at its peak and watch the color fade.

a few times i really tried, i tore at the gravel with cupped, dusty hands, throwing back scoops of rocks. i fought the hill until my fingertips bled and my nails had been ripped off, but every bit i moved just made way for more gravel to come pouring down, erasing my progress. and then i'd sit, wondering, when is someone going to come by and give me a shovel?

and then i'd sit.

and i'd sit.

and i'd sit.

but it's time, i think. time to stand back up and get at it again. my fingernails grew back. the rain washed the dust away. time to try again.

i wonder if there's a shovel in the shed?


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