field journal, page ??

Dripcount: 44 today. Slower than yesterday.
(I sang to speed them. Stone ignored me. Again.)

Mushrooms:
Grew in the mouth of the crevice, whispering white.
Soft hats. Spore-hums.
One looked at me. I looked back.
A draw. I lost. Ate it anyway.
Now I see two echoes where one should be. Delightful.

Dust:
Fine. Finer. Finest.
Layered like old memory,
silt of secrets, skin of the cave.
I wore it. I wept.
(Laughed. Same thing.)

Divots:
Toe traps.
Teeth for the careless.
Or a bed for beetles.
Count: too many. Depth: enough to swallow a thought.

Chasms:
The big breathers.
Some go down forever.
I threw a bone. It didn't land.
Or maybe it did, just quietly.
Everything lands eventually.

Echoes:
I named them.
Murmur. Mutter. Mock.
One sounds like a tail, one like teeth,
one...
like him.

But it isn't.
Not unless it is.


Stalagmites (up):
Angry teeth.
Reaching. Slow spears.
I counted them until my fingers bled.
Then I bit one. It bit back. Fair.

Stalactites (down):
Drippers. Hangers. Threateners.
One sings. I dona tell the others.
She is mine.

Creatures:
Saw a fernbeast.
Green, great, gently gnashing.
It sniffed the salt off my skin.
I showed it my knife.
It showed me its patience.
We parted as friends. I think.

Crystals:
Clustered. Claimed.
One glows with a heartbeat.
I sleep beside it. I dream in prisms.
I woke once tasting light.
(It was red.)

Moss:
So soft. So sly.
Hides slick things.
It giggles when I sit on it.
I giggle too.
No one listens down here,
but me,
so we are safe.

Conclusion:
The cave grows. It knows.
It wants me to stay.
It wants me to become.
I will.


Penned by my hand on the 11th of Scarlatan, in the year 975 AF.