My Digging Arm

I have discovered, in the quiet, that I am being listened to. And in silence, I am being spoken to. I can tell, even alone, that the words I speak to myself fail to capture what I think. My parents could say much more with their words, but I cannot. I speak my half thoughts and they are heard, the other half filled in. 

It would not be hard to find place in the woods. Many villages I know of, and a far greater number are throughout the VitchWood here, far outside the eyes of the silver-clad El. But I feel, I know, that is not where I belong.  

My body is growing into a shape that I do not recognize. Some nights, I awaken in a fit, my right arm bruised in it's attempt to dig itself, and me, into the soil. Even through solid stone my fingernails will be worn down and my finger tips bloodied trying to find purchase in the rock. 

Beyond just my arm, my being, twisted in its dual capacity seeks to be buried beneath the dirt. Now I feel the urge to satisfy this alien craving, to satiate the simple pulse emanating from my right forearm. I need a home. I need to find it's home. 

Something calls to me far from my little valley home. There seems a great wound in the ground that begs me to it. That clawing, digging sense of mine drives me there. And I must fulfill it's hunger.