Dum spiro, spero

A hole. 
A hole built for me - out of love, out of passion of whatever I meant. 
A hole built for me, when I never thought it could be a possibility, the builder fully aware of its potential. 
Voices whispered in awe of the hole, yet it was but a tiny hole, with no consequence, so I patched it not.

But then, amusement woke me up from my slumber, of nurturing and caring, to behold the amusement of the hole. 
One step, two steps, I peek at the hole - the hole, not so small. 
The hole, so much bigger and intricate, as if it was woven with fibres taken from every object imaginable. 
The hole, so fierce it had a life of its own - breathing, living, and hungry to feed on my naivety, my belief in good and peace. 

I peeked and immediately I felt a pull on my face, then my whole head and body, as if caught up in a tornado - my whole being pulled in towards its centre like a suction of a vortex. 
I pulled away with a temporary amnesia. 
Left with only the instinct to live, to survive this force that had suddenly threatened my entire existence. I was left with a heartbeat, a racing heart and adrenaline that set my muscles into flight mode. 
I staggered, falling backwards, grabbing on every grass straw I could feel, and yet I could still feel the vicious pull of the vortex. 

What hole is this? 
I tried to imagine what was inside, what it looked like inside, what generated the vortex. 
The more I thought about it the weaker I became, for its power seemed to  penetrate my psyche, draining all hope and energies, taking hold of all my senses. 
I relented. 
All I could feel were the fibres of grass on the ground I landed on. Still armed with the force of survival, I started to weave a rope using the grass I could grasp. 

Its fruitless. Abandon it. It won’t hold. You will be sucked right back in. These were the whispers I heard around me, from those that were watching me as I struggled to free myself from the suction power of the vortex. 
For a moment, I thought I could let go of the grass, but the thought of being sucked up by the vortex if I let go smacked me back to my senses. I held on ever more tightly, hoping to feel a hand pulling me out of the vortex, or for the vortex to subside, or…. or anything that would change my situation. 
As I waited and hoped, I wove the ropes of grass. Fibre by fibre, I wove myself into the rope ever so neatly and tightly that I felt one with the grass. With this weaving, my hope hinged on the spring rains. 
As the grass sprung and grew, I was elevated to a higher level, away from the reach of the vortex. I rose and took the first steps towards my freedom, heeding to my instinct never to look back at the hole.

Days, weeks, months, years yet the feeling of the time at the hole is as fresh as when sat at the edge. I can still smell the grass that I weaved my body so tightly, and I can still smell the fear that once overwhelmed me at the hole. As I feel this feeling, it draws me back, calling me from within my psyche. I go back to the hole and stop a distance, for a moment. The silence pushes me to proceed and peek. 

What is this thing? 

Its a black hole. 
A big black hole. 
A masterpiece designed to torment me, to package me into a little bundle of mass that could fit into that little hole. 
To drive me into an eternity of darkness where my thoughts would be quietened, my dreams sent into oblivion, my works and the memory of me forgotten. 
To erase all that I am. 
The architect of the hole rewrote my story, my thinking, my dreams, my works. So that all I can do is simply follow the lead of the architect of that black hole.

I take a step back and zoom out of the reach of its waves. 
Alas! I have overcome. It is over! 
As I look back at the black hole, I realise that it is simply a little hole - as tiny as a mustard seed on a hundred- and two-hectare piece of land.