I'm confronted with cavernous darkness and echoing air. An expanse both dense and hollow; warm just slightly past the point of comfort. My movement is much more limited than it should be given the vastness. I am floating rather than walking, and the speed of my action is limited as if the air is water.
I am in the belly of an unknown beast.
It's not a question of how I came to be trapped. I am looking for a way out. However, without vision, without a reference point, I am eternally centered. Each passing increment of time re-anchors me to the present moment, and I make no outward progression. If only I could move faster, explore more, surely then I would be able to find an exit. What I have yet to fully comprehend, however, is the truth about the passing time:
The beast died long ago.
What is beyond this insulated casket? When the rotting leaves me a skeleton in a cage of bones, what then? My eyes, blinded from a lifetime of darkness will be unable to see the expanse of the desert that claimed the beast. I will be too old and weak to venture forward, weighed down even by my dessicated skin. Perhaps I will muse to myself some final words, wry and eerily cheerful.
"Don't worry about what you eat. Worry about what eats that which eats you."
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