To the earth a mine is never abandoned, yet is in a process of being reclaimed by its mother.
The abandoned mine is a matter of perspective, for there is much life in this space, this belly of the Earth.
The tunnels were as the arteries of the earth, blackened by the abuse of years. They went on and on into the black without and end in sight or possibility of sunlight, tracks to nowhere that lead only to the cold. I reached out my hand to the walls that blinkered, that told me of no other option but walk. Then I took a step backwards, and another, and another, until I felt the golden rays warm my hair.
With the flashlight beam on the old tracks they walk down into the mine that hasn't had the echo of footsteps within it for centuries. There is a mustiness, a sudden damp coldness and the natural light is all choked up behind them like ale behind a cork.
In the old abandoned mine I feel like I am walking in the hollow bones of mother earth. I feel like I cam returning to her core, rejoining with the soil my birth parted me from. I know that in a few short hours I will turn around and return to the life above the worms and the beetles, but not yet, not yet. Above is rock, as is below, and for now I like it that way.
In the mine the blackness is a friend, taking away the stimulation of the world. There are no colours to inspire memories of yesteryear, not the feeling of rain or the hope of a spring morning. Perhaps that is why I come here, just like a child hiding under the blankets. I am buried and the world carries on regardless.
In the old abandoned mine there is nothing but an echo and stagnation. There is no light, no movement of air, no warmth. Cleo holds out her hand like a child foolishly expecting affection. She jumps, not expecting her nails to scrape the walls, her claustrophobia folding in her like the lid of a box.
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