A prose; The Exploration

Dig. Dig.

His shovel dug into the rocky earth, his palms starting to callous after what felt like six hours. He coughed, his lungs heavy with soot and dust. His eyes watered. His back ached. But he would not quit.

He imagined another being on Venus watching him through a kaleidoscope; the green and blue colors of an opal converging in the galactic backdrop. To this being, he was a unicorn. It would never hear him rant or yell. His presence was as light and dazzling as a peacock's feather.

He was a gem and a monster. A grey juxtaposition.

The hole was as wide as a whale's mouth. Dig. Dig. There was never time for a nap. Not after what happened. If he had the guts, he would rip out his bones and tether them to sticks around the hole's edge.

A raw ceiling.

Time was imminent. He believed that frantic, impulsive feelings were the only time the ego's graffiti-walls temporarily vanish and it reveals its true self.

Flashbacks trigger the rush.

Perhaps he could make arrangements for some bland pot. He might need it before the exploration.