Liminal Thinking

Walls of granite.
There, that's a place to start, right?
Oh, who are you kidding,
You know nothing about stone.
Whatever it is, it's cold
and you're far away from home
underground
or in the ocean
or on a mountain
or something.
Who knows.
There was rushing air at some point.

Anyway, there's no door.

Scrabble at the walls.
Scrabble at the corners.
Scrabble at the floor.
Scrabble, scrabble, scrabble.

There's no air in here and your time is running out.
There's a confused rush of senses.
Sight, sound, smell.
A rusted chain link fence and a thirst like the Devil's own.
A car blasting a tinny old horn.
But there's no door and the air is running out and there's nothing in the room.

You step outside the cube.
What the fuck.
You weren't supposed to be able to do that.
There's a sky out here, which is a good sign.
And the sun is sinking but there's still time.
And...oh, there's a brook or stream or something.
Have a drink, I suppose you've earned it.

How the fuck did you do that?

We put you in that box to die.
Palsied white hands (hah, get it? Patriarchy. Or something) picked you up
and locked you in.
You were supposed to wander around a bit.
Scream impotently, or rage at the heavens or something.
Curl up in the center and eventually stop twitching.
There was no door.
We made sure there was no door.
You have no rights.
You have no rites.
Get back in the box.

What's that you're cradling?