Not A Wee Fiction: Mine

I don't have to go inside. I can see the oil stove burning in the middle of the floor, the patrons gathered round, talking, shouting, laughing, smoking. The scene could be duplicated in a thousand shops. And the talking, shouting and laughing would be the same in all of them, talk of money and the lack of it, of the state of the place, of what things have come to, of thieves, traitors. There is a lot I could add to the discussion, but I prefer not to. I remain, willingly, ametohos, left out, I have no stake in the debate. I am not of these people, I am from another place, a place with similar problems but no sense of itself. I am a stranger, ametohos, in both places. I am losing my mind. This is no personal choice, although it is the result of one. To find the richest seam one must dig deep. But the deeper one goes, the darker it becomes. There is blood on my hands from tearing at rocks which refuse to yield. I force a way through. I have to put myself in that place, to feel it. The seam, which is the past, is reached. It is a gallery of illusions, blackened with dust. Torn skin smoothes a mark in the kimberlite. The image is nothing more than a stain, meaningless. But I am now in the place. I lose myself in it. This is where I have put myself, willingly. A personal choice. This is where I have to be, where I must be, buried in this dark, mad grave. No longer ametohos. I hack at diamonds.