Digging holes in the ground

I remember when I was 6 or 7 years old, living in the mountains of Yamanashi on a beatnik hippy commune with my parents, 3 brothers (there would be one more later, in England), and a constant flow of colourful visitors from all over the world. Rainbows formed overhead and friendly packs of dogs came a visiting in the summer.
During one bright autumn day, I decided to dig a hole. Not just any old hole, but a deep impact crater of a hole which would lead to a underworld hideaway, where I could hide and be safe; from what I didn't know. I dug all day until my hands burned and my thin arms shook like willow tree branches in a typhoon.
And yet, although it hurt like hell, I had my hole. It was deep enough for me to sit in and be completely out of view of anybody that cared to look. I went and found an old piece of wooden flooring and used it as a covering for the hole. It began to rain, so I opened the hatch and climbed into my safe-hole. As I sqautted down in the dark dirt, smelling musty rich, I pulled the hatch closed over my head.
It was so dark I could even see my hands in front of my face. It felt like I was floating in outer space, weightless and out of control. It felt good - I wasn't afraid.
I settled in and waited for the rain to abate, happy in my own deep space.