At the beginning there was the cave. Our mothers womb. Cave life. We came out of the earth, blind and hairy like moles and we will go back there.
We go back into the earth, under the earth, under the world, underworld.
When I was a child I loved to build caves. I made them out of cushions and blankets. I loved to be inside my caves, or under tables or inside wardrobes, on a soft ground of clothes that have fallen from their hangers.
The cave as a home. To hibernate, let the cold season pass.
To wake up afterwards. When everything is decided already.
The cave as a liminal space.
Between here and there, life and afterlife.
The cave as my mother‘s womb. My place of birth.
The cave as the grave. My place of death.
Shall we go down into the underworld?
Where will I end up when I dig deep enough?
To step into a cave is introversion, regression to the source.
One time, my dad took us on a day trip to a cave. We had torches and rain capes. The entrance to the cave was so narrow, we had to crawl on our knees. The ground was wet and grainy. I can still remember the soil clinging to my hands.
I like the smell of caves. It is cold and a bit mouldy but also earthy. When we were through the first narrow tunnel, the walls ran further apart and we could stand up. My dad told us to turn off our torches.
Dark. It is so dark that I doubt the existence of my eyes. I keep them open so I know it is there, the darkness. I can hear drops of water, tapping as they land on the ground.
The echo goes tap tap tap tap tap
I dig my hands in the ground.
I touch your hands under the earth. I touch your hands in the underworld.
Your body next to mine in the darkness. Do you feel how close I am?
When our hands are under the earth no one can see that our fingers are touching.
Do we keep ourselves in insincerity? Is this a search for honesty?
We cross a distance under the earth.