This is the edge of the island. Above,
below and forward, fog and something that is neither darkness nor
light. The rock is exposed beneath my feet, the moss and fern-things
stopping a pace or so short of this edge.
I've stood here many times, pissing
into the fog, or watching a leafy bundle of shit fall away into this
nothing that isn't nothing. And I've stood here other times,
yelling, screaming, praying at the top of my lungs for someone or
something to come here.
But nothing and no-one ever has.
You can feel nothingness, after a
while. A sort of pervasive lack, a quality of the self, the air, the
stone, and time itself. This is not, I think, a place. This is
something else between is and is not, some kind of existence which
does not exist.
And all of this is simply delaying
myself from what I know I will do. Something I have contemplated
more than once. Something I have not done because it cannot be taken
back.
But now there is whatever wails, out
there, down below, closer than any light has ever come. And there is
something beneath the wailing, almost silent, a hiss.
Rain, striking leaves, I think. Coming
from below. Rain falling on leaves that are not up here on my
island. Rain falling on leaves and something... someone(?) wailing
in the dark.
3.. 2........ fuck it.
I push outward, hard.
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