Imperfections in the Dirt

I always try to write something perfect but then I start talking about tunnels and flashlights and compasses as i f any one will ever understand what that means.

What's crazy is that I can picture it so clearly but from the outsite. Like that image of the guy that turns just was hies about to reach dimonds. I want to stay at that distance. Stay as far waway from myself as I can ebcause if I actually sit in the darnes of that whole it no longer becaome s a mattaphor but instead, I"m locked in this claustrophobia hell that I can't get out of. If I focus for one second, I feel buried live.

Brown dirt. Mayve a little twig buried god knows how long ago. I'm in a bubble of air. There is no top, not really. Because no one relly sees me. I'm just staring at the dirst in front of me because I know that at least if I keep my eyes on that wall and my back to the other, I'll now the world isn't wpinning. I'm not confused even though this wall could be in any firection, but I'm facing it so I know it's ahead of me.

I can feel the first under my fingernails but when I reach out for the wall to try and start digging, I see my hands and I snap back to my position.

I'm afraid that if I start to dig, all I'll be really doing is burying myself deeper.