“Our anxiety does not empty tomorrow of its sorrows, but only empties today of its strengths.”
― Charles Haddon Spurgeon
How deep does the rabbit hole go, you ask?
Wandering ways in a web of warrens, see
—there is no room for more than one
abreast—so we scuffle through it alone,
until the cracked earth reveals some
waiting sun. Why! Enough to unearth this
feverish nomadic ride—but wait now, just
one moment. I see (perhaps it is thanks to
the sun) a different weave of rabbit holes
bending on but never breaking. They churn
and run in impossible straights, sprinting with
the terrestrial dark. And for a revelation, an
interminable moment I question the madness:
fight up to light, or dig on into the other
world below? You’ll think me mad (if not already),
for what I am about to say. The light-born would
be bathing in the grass already, but I think
no: I must know what lies beneath. And if I greet
the mad king hare that tunneled all these frights
I will confront him with a whimper and a why:
Why so many possible ways, but all of them
dark? Have you ever trafficked in light? Do you
sleep ever, or always, or does the madness
make you king? He would croak I suppose,
unable to answer because there is no answer,
and that, surely, would be the end of him. And the
others and I, caught in that wayward warren, would
convene and set upon a dig upward toward the sky.
We would pierce the earthen ceiling and
crack the night below.
Ah yes, I know—the ways would still exist, you say.
The possible darknesses not altogether cease their
darkenessing, but if there is a bow of light just so often,
we would find our way, or back again. Perhaps,
the dusty roads below would be adventure sought
so much more than scurries through a living burial.
I’m above these days, but have long had a habit
of falling down. Some have said the holes find
me, or that I am destined to find them.
These are silly explanations, friends. But I will
confess this eccentricity: I don’t suppose I should
ever be fond of rabbits.