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We got out of the car under a highway. My dad wanted to show me a path along the river across from the parking lot. It was a cold, gray day, and felt more like January than late March. The torn up concrete expanse separating us and the river used to be a brick factory, Dad said. A dense, swampy looking forest wound around the perimeter and looked like it had bled onto the cement in the years the area had been left more or less unattended. By the time we reached the trailhead, the weather had soured and we both agreed that it was too cold and too gray of a day for exploring. Probably best to cut our losses and head back to the car. The sky was pregnant with rain and the air was heavy.
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I dropped my glasses into some gravel at an unknown date last spring. They were mildly scratched. I know because two and a half pages in the journal I was using at the time to jot down notes and sketches and whatnot for my game have been repurposed to describe the process in exhausting detail. Minus the date, which is strange. Typically, I am very organized in labelling my note-taking, but it’s possible that being concerned with what day it was felt trivial or even inappropriate given the severity of the issue at hand.
Likely the most bizarre part of being in a cave is waking up and still being in a cave. Anywhere the light from your lantern isn’t hitting is completely soaked in darkness. And the darkness is really very dark down here. Last night might have been the best sleep of my life if I’d been courageous (or foolish) enough to turn off my light. It might still be last night, for all I know. The cave has no circadian rhythm.
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