The Cave

         The cave was dripping, oozing, feeling, and my clothing soaked it up like a sponge. Cold. Wet. Clingy. But I went on. My hair like the stalactites above me funneled water off in tiny little drip drip droplets. Behind me, the flickering of flames etched shadows on the walls for a humble audience, instilling them with “oohs”, “ahhs”, and “understanding”. I went on. I was in the now, and the now just happened to be fucking cold and miserable. But I went on.
         A man passed me, saw me leaving. Shocked showed itself in his eyes. “But won’t you miss the pudding?” he asked.
         “No.” Fuck pudding. I don’t want pudding. I want old, stale bread. French bread. Cheap french bread. With some strong, bitter beer. Give me that and I’ll be a saint once again. The man shook his head and I swore that I saw some “understanding” leak out. He hobbled off, muttering something. “Please sir, can I have s’more?”
         But I went on.
         At the mouth of the cave now. In the now, feeling it, feeling the future I was headed for. I stopped. Waited. I looked back once. It didn’t matter.
         I looked forward again. The choice. No struggle, no fight. Just chance, change, and the choice. And then, in that moment, nothing mattered more.