In the cave you’re supposed to watch for shadows. Try to understand the world. But this cave is dark. The mouth is closed. It’s not really a cave. And somehow you’re able to see writing on the walls instead of drawing. Your handwriting. The walls like old paper. Yellowed, creased, stained by time. Blue ink moves left to right. Pages of what had been your thoughts. Stories, a few poems, love notes sent and unsent. This one here that you’re reading is from troubled times. Real darkness. Written when you should have been asleep. It says things you can’t believe you believed. You wonder who you could have been. Who you thought you were. There is room at the bottom to change the ending. Space on the wall to rewrite it all. You hold the pen in your hand. Shadows move across the wall. Memories perhaps. No. There are things happening now. Out there. The cave is open. There’s the mouth. Tree branches move in grey morning light. The wind whispers. The walls are drawings, ancient and strange. No words. You put the pen in your pocket. From outside the cave you hear a voice. Calling you to come out now, wherever you are.