©2022 Michael Raven
I have been standing here, staring at the edge of the world.
People imagine that place to be on the precipice of an abyss filled with void, tumbling out before them — a cascade of nothing.
That’s not the edge of the world.
The edge of the world terminates where another begins: one of dense old growth trees and sunlight struggling to reach eager young plants, and where mycelium chatter over a mystic telegram of spores, electrical impulses and chemical lovemaking. Where thing rot and are reborn in the shadows, and leaves mask the rich soil below.
I am unmoored, unhomed, lost the thread of the tether save for the few gossamer tendrils threatening to break like spider silk under too much strain. I am a drifter trying to find a way back to the heart buried past the edge of the world, a wayfarer and pilgrim, blind with fingers reaching out to feel my way past the blinding brilliance of chrome and corrupted alchemy. I am wandering, here, at the razor thin slice of reality, wondering on which side I actually stand.
Drifter: my everywhere is home, but never do I belong.
Taking up my walking staff, my third leg grounding, I step into the shadows, leaving something behind.
A journey. An echtrae. One step beyond.