it would be nice if he could say that he had fallen into a endless pit of darkness, and failed at clawing his way back up.
but that would be lying.
in truth, it was like this:
he'd been dropped in a hole and had never been taught how to climb. the only thing he knew was how to dig, so dig he did.
as he went deeper and deeper into the ground, he knew he was damning himself. but what was there to do?
doing something felt better than doing nothing. at least he could pretend like it was his choice to dig.
sometimes he would look up into the shining sun, but never for too long.
deeper and deeper he goes.
eventually, he changes direction. he starts digging horizontally as well, not just vertically.
he can no longer look up to see the sun, even if he wants to.
so he keeps digging.
sometimes he thinks back to the world above him, of the light that used to fill his life. of the steady promise, that even if it went away for a short period of time, that it would come back.
the promise of something out there, something that wasn't the endless darkness he had become used to- it terrifies him.
he knows, theoretically, that he had been born into the world of light. but it had been so long since then that he had forgotten what it was like. it was almost as if he was a completely different being than the one who had initially been thrown into the pit.
he almost liked it better that way. if he could convince himself that this was the only thing he had ever known, then what ties would he have to the light? he would be able to stop hoping, stop dreaming, of life out there. he would be able to accept his place in the darkness.
after years and years of digging, something finally changes.
at some point, he had lost track of direction completely, and had started digging upwards.
he accidentally breaks through the surface.
he can see the light. he's closer to it than he has in ages, and it burns.
but how warm it is, even as his eyes smart and his skin reddens.
how warm and inviting it is. it reminds him of something forgotten, of comfort, of happiness, of love.
but he's afraid.
even though the darkness is not his home, it is the only thing he knows anymore. all he knows how to do is dig and dig and dig.
if he returns to the surface, he will have to relearn everything from the ground up.
there are endless possibilities for a person in the light. they can do whatever they want to do. they don't have to dig.
after years of being able to do nothing but dig, having a choice, actually having a choice, is an impassable barrier.
there are too many ways to go about things, far too many for a person who can only ever remember having one.
he hates digging, but what else is there to do? it's almost easy, by now.
he knows how to keep digging, even when his body aches in protest. he knows exactly how the dirt will fall on him, how he has to rub his eyes carefully to avoid irritating them. he's used to dealing with the rawness of his fingers as he scrapes away at the ground in front of him.
in one world, perhaps there is somebody there, when he breaks through to the surface.
perhaps there's somebody who helps him out, who helps him relearn what it's like to be a person, and not just a tool that can only dig.
perhaps that person gives him the push he needs, even when he's shaking from the terror of having a choice.
maybe he learns to accept help, and accepts his weakness, and strives to continue forward even on a path he can't see the end to.
but that's just one world.
maybe there's nobody there. maybe there is, but he refuses the hand outstretched to him.
maybe he, so afraid of the burning light, turns back to the dirt and digs again.
and keeps digging, and digging, and digging.
because he's convinced himself that it's his choice to dig.
so he keeps digging, deeper and deeper, until the light is just a faint memory again.