I feel a particular kinship with the light now. The sun does more than hang overhead. It is without distractions. It is the only source of energy. It is the only source of life. All motive force descends from what is above. I fear that I’m becoming philosophical. It’s the lack of urgency in the sun. It hangs overhead. It has neither personality nor intention. It appears still, though I know that it is moving. Yet still, I know that its movement in the sky is not its own movement, but the movement of the planet on which I stand. The light is constant. Movement is illusion. We move around it. Only now, there is no “we”. There is only myself.
Standing at the mouth of the cave, I see only masses of plant life for the perceivable distance. The light is bright, and the sky is a humid haze. There are no clouds. The verdant green of healthy, satisfied foliage sways in the breeze. The ferns, and they are all ferns, rise to nearly twice my height. Their spores are rows of scarlet clinging to the underside of the fronds.
It’s strange how how little my eyes sting. Waking as I have in such a bright place would ordinarily cause one to squint as they adjust. This has not occurred. My body accepts the light, as it does the heat and the smells. All is uncomfortable, but my body does not recoil from any of it. It is as though I am intended for such a place.
I step cautiously out the mouth of the cave, and down the steep embankment of gray stone that leads to a shore of mud. The mud is black, thick as tar and littered with a muck of small stones. The mud is oddly cold, despite the oppressive heat. I sink less than expected, only up to my ankles.
Mindful of the creeping mud, I begin to explore the area.