The Ditch

Artwork by Alice Reid, photography by Martina Holland

Salt stings your eyes. You wipe your grubby hand across your forehead. Dirt smears your thigh as you dry your hand on your trousers. You grasp the pick with both hands. Your arms strain on the backswing. Thwack. Fast. Powerful. The crunch of metal on gravel lingers in the fetid air. Again, you lift. Thwack. Dirt crumbles. Forward, you move. Progress.  

You can be anything you want to be. 

You can’t remember when you started digging. Time has stretched, sagged, snapped back on itself – hours melting into years that crept behind you when you weren’t looking. Your attention – nailed to the pick. And the dirt. And the never-ending digging. As you lift your pick again, a dark, cold, silent longing seeps upwards, inundating your mind like blackwater through floorboards. 

Never give up. 

Fragmented wonderings rush in to chase the feeling below. Did you simply find yourself here, pick in hand? Or did you plan it out – sourcing the pick, mapping your route? Did the pick find you – a gift of fate predestined by the stars? Was it the best of bad options? The only option? Were you coerced? Was this your choice? You don’t suppose it matters now. 

Follow your dreams. 

Turning to look behind you, you try to get a sense of where you have come from. The walls of the ditch soar above your head. The ditch stretches further than you can see. A warm smugness crests within before crashing into a wave of pride and satisfaction. You have come a long way. 

Believe in yourself. 

Now. You sit. And breathe. A whisper of a memory tickles the back of your mind: you – young, free, beaming at a future multiverse of possibilities. You look straight up. An azure strip flanked on three sides by the sepia lip of your ditch. You can’t remember the last time you noticed the sky.  

Just be yourself. 

You grab a handful of dirt and throw it high. When it reaches the air above your ditch, a gust of what you suppose must be wind whips it away out of sight. You wonder what that air feels like. Down here the air blankets you with its warmth, a faint waft of something rotting mixed with the smell of your sweat. You bet the air up there smells fresh and clean. You scramble up the vertical wall of the ditch in front of you, clutching your pick, using it to pull yourself upwards. 

Reach for the stars. 

Clinging to the lip, your eyes peek out. The vastness of the space above takes your breath away. You swivel your head. In every direction, flat, open plains stretch to the horizon. You hoist yourself up and sit on the edge of your ditch. Freedom! Why! You could move in any direction! Greedily, you breathe in the fresh air. Your hunched body relaxes and your chest swells as you scan the infinite horizon. Why didn’t you do this years ago? 

The world is your oyster. 

Standing now, you wonder which direction to walk. Your arms light. Your head giddy. The air on the plains fans an ember of possibility in your mind. You decide you will head left. Or maybe right. Or maybe straight ahead. You take a few steps. And some more. Before long, you lose sight of your ditch altogether. The light is too bright. The air is too thin. Your foot hovers, hesitates. Nausea bubbles within.

The sky’s the limit. 

Clenching your pick in both hands, you strike the earth hard. You feel the tension in your arms return. Routine settles across your shoulders like a well-worn coat. Better not stay up here for too long. It doesn’t feel very safe.