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The Crawler. By Alex Wyte.


There’s no way out.
The exits are barred, the entrances too.

How did I get here?
Why am I forced to go through with this?
What’s the point?

The darkness is disorientating, I can’t tell how big a space I’m in.
The walls feel damp; or is it just cold? It’s hard to tell.
I crawl. Maybe I could stand up, but then I risk falling, or hitting my head, crawling is safer, comforting somehow.

The rough surface is painful but I have to keep moving.
What else is there to do?

I’ve been crawling for a long time now. Sometimes, when I get tired, I just lie still, sometimes I roll gently until I feel existence spinning gently in the opposite direction, then I stop… but the spinning continues, until I can’t tell whether I’m rolling or not.

How do I know whether I’m rolling or not?
Why should I care?
I’m trapped, but I have to keep moving onwards.

In a past time I saw light.
I laughed, played, loved, cried, ate, drank, was merry, danced, ran, enjoyed, endured, fell, got up again… but now…

I’ve lost the spark.
The joy.
The life.

I’m dead.

But there’s one thing that keeps me crawling, however painful, however tedious it may be:

I know that one day, one night, one time, I will turn a corner or crest a rise in this dark dark place, and I will see… a point of light.
Just the tiniest pin-prick.
So feint that the eye cannot hold it steady.
And I will crawl, and roll, and crawl, towards that tiny speck of hope, until it grows in size.
Until it is bright enough to see my hands in front of my face.
Until I can feel the warmth of the sun.
Until I can crawl out of this dark dark place and exist again in a bright world.

Until I live again.


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