We, explorers of wonder and nature, had one plan: make it to the reaches of oblivion.
As a kid, all I knew of the edge was CGI from a 2006 horse movie, depicting eagles soaring through the red and orange canyons. But growing up, the tales and legends spoke more of truth as I had come to understand the world.
So, after much planning and pleading, my mother and father finally obliged. With a powered wagon filled to the brim with luggage and sustenance, we set out. Our hearts were full of yearning; to escape this grey and endless forest, the maps led us south.
Past the windows flew signs of towns and weathered asphalt. Enraptured by the idea of our journey, I fantasized about the end goal. We talked and talked; even past our frequent stops and food breaks, we held steadfast to spirit.
Soon thereafter, the land grew into rolling hills and then into golden fields of waving wheat. The cows and horses swished their tails in greeting. The sky was a brilliant blue; clouds whipped in the winds with birds of silver likeness.
When the coolness of darkness reached its clammy hands into the horizon, the breeze climbed to a gale. My father found us shelter by the road after chasing signs that made false promises.
We slept in close confines, barely fit for people like us. That night I dreamt of natives starting fires and seeking warmth from the winds outside.
The following morning was blinding yet gentle with its waking. To our journey, it rekindled our sleepy spirit, pushing us farther and farther out, farther than I had ever been. Past the windmills and herded cows lay new territory, unlike anything I’d ever seen.
The land gave way to ground dirt, tumbling into piles that allowed only shrubbery to cling. The sun’s rays beat harder here, bleaching out the stones with red and orange. Vultures circled on the horizon in the endless desert.
We trekked upwards, astounded by the river carving its presence deep into the earth now toiling far below up.
Despite the harsher climate, hope for better ones kept us pressing on.
All of a sudden, a mountain rose out of the ground, topped with snow and casting shadows far over the land. It loomed over us, presenting obstacles we had yet to plan for. We passed by its foothills in great awe of its beauty.
Soon, however, the end was finally in sight.
Ahead was the edge of a plateau: the beginning of the end. We trekked upwards, astounded by the river carving its presence deep into the earth now toiling far below up. Up and up to the sky we traveled, past little shacks and flying flags. Here, the gales whipped around wildly, attempting to make us turn back.
But we had already come too far to turn back now.
We met strange travelers like us who urged us forward. They, also like us, wished to gaze beyond the edge, to see true oblivion.
Finally, we reached the top. Our tired feet led us to the last few steps.
And what we saw was beyond imagination, fantasy, and recognition. It was the rim of possibility, too big and complex to be a mistake. This is true freedom and gradure.
This is the edge of oblivion.
