ᴛɪʟʟ ᴡᴇ ʙɪᴛᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴜsᴛ. — { tom. }
Sept 4, 2018 13:32:09 GMT -5
Post by gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Sept 4, 2018 13:32:09 GMT -5
Coarse hand, thick boots.
— there's a symmetry
to every boy here.
It’s a blue morning, the sun eclipsed by gloom and clouds, air so crisp and autumnal. The kind of morning us miners have grown to loathe, for working spiritlessly can be dangerous, tedious and every other pejorative connotations out there.
A leaden day distorts the nervous system; one miner could be targeting at a rock with the sharpened cone of their tool and have it end up against their own limb, or worse, another’s.
The dark of the coal mines induce a sepulchral feeling inside: like, I’m staring at an augury laced with neon, like I’m tiptoeing along the nylon thread of death, like, I could perish away at any given moment without no warnings.
We meander altogether: a silhouetted assembly of us, miners, boys who’d just become noncontroversial for strenuous work.
Even though I’d waken up about an hour ago, anticipation swells for the softness of my pillow and bed tonight. It’s torturous: to fathom of softness whilst doing hard work that leaves callouses all over once-silken palms.
This is what the soldiers amongst the rebellion days must’ve felt: a deep-rooted exhaustion adhered to the walls of your guts, walking only for the sake of getting onwards.
“I fucking hate this work.” Vocal chords hiss audibly; I am not concerned about workplace manners or decency in a strange sudden.
This heavy exhaustion
seizes authority over—
Everything.[inspired by dars]
