True Story 3 - Small Spaces

I've always liked confined spaces. Maybe that's why I chose to live here.

I once ran away to live in a well. It was concrete with metal rungs, dry most of the time. The same well I'd crouch in waiting for some kid to toss a nickel in and say "I wish I had a million dollars" so I could cup my mouth and wail "Soooo doo I." They never did so I never did. As I say, I ran away to live in this well. I stayed until I got hungry and then went home.

I imagined my bedroom a travel trailer. I recorded my travels in blue pencil on the walls, the only detail of which I remember was a cowboy wearing a ten gallon hat. My parents were angry. As punishment I had to live with it. I guess my father figured I'd break under the pressure, but I liked my handiwork and continually added to it. I'd bounce on my bed on down the highway.

I built small forts with smaller secret rooms. I once built a seven room fort from pilfered lumber. The smallest room was a hole in the ground big enough for me to curl up in and drag a piece of plywood over the hole. Most of the other rooms had egress portals for the purpose of escape, one with a ladder down a rock wall leading into rhododendrons, oh the luxurious rhododendrons... But the hole was there for hiding when escape was impossible. Was I envisioning a grave? And who or what was invading, besides snakes?

Tables. Desks. Especially closets. The kindling room. All shelters.
Tombs.
Womb.
Home.