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 and yet it was but a tiny hole with no consequence, so I patched it not.

Amusement woke me up from the 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 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. 

As I peeked, I felt a pull on my face, then my 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 have penetrated 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 had landed on. Still armed with the force of survival, I started to weave a rope out of the grass I could grasp. 

Its fruitless. abandon it. it won’t hold. you will be sucked right back in. these were the words whispered by the voices that surrounded me, 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 sprouted 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 if I was sitting 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 from it for a moment. The silence pushes me to proceed and peek. What is this thing? 

A black hole, a big black hole. A masterpiece designed to torment me, to package me into a little bundle of mass that can fit into that little hole. To drive me into an eternity of darkness where my thoughts are quietened, my dreams sent into oblivion, my works and the memory of me forgotten. To erase all that I am, as 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.