Out of Abyss

I hear there’s a place out there that’s free of this. Of the smog, and the blistering wind, and the fire blasts. A place that isn’t on the edge of an abyss, constantly moving toward this slow, inevitable, devastation.

You can see why this place intrigued me, I’m sure.

When your home is built on the edge of destruction, it’d be kind of an obvious thing to want to get away from it. From that edge.

Setting out was hard, and terrifying. And the journey? Even harder. For years now, I’ve wandered around, looking for this oasis.

All I’ve met so far is more desolation. More magma and more fire. Blazes that reach the sky, that lick at my feet as I pass through their cinders. Smoke still clots my lungs and the sky, blocks the sun from doing what it does best.

It seems like this is all an abyss. Like there might not be a place out there, after all.

But if I give up, what will happen to me?

If I give up, this will be all I’ve ever known.

All I’ve ever known.

The thought echoes through a hollow in my chest. A clanging sound that means nothing and brings nothing back.

No, I refuse.

I will find more than this.

I press on, honestly expecting to come up empty handed.

But I don’t.

The first sight of it is so sudden that I don’t believe it. Instead, I believe I’m at the end. The light at the tunnel. The heat and the smoke and the ash have finally gotten to me.

I’m dead.

That can be the only thing that explains it. The only logical reason for this beautiful thing to exist before me, to exist on the edge of such desolation.

But I look back and I see it.

The fire.

The smoke.

The ash.

It rises and I know this isn’t a dream. That it isn’t the end.

I’m not dead.

I just wasn’t wrong.

There is beauty out there.

There is a place free of the fog and the dust and the cinders.

I laugh out loud, incredulous.

Tears clear up the soot from my face. The smog protests, choking me in a last attempt to keep me. To claim me for this burning land forever.

But I refuse.

Still covered in ash and death, I run down the burning hill toward the green. The full trees and the open sky. The sun that peaks over a white cloud. A sun that isn’t forced behind a dark cumulonimbus of malice. I run toward the crystal river that has no sign of soot, nor ashes and embers.

I plunge right in.

Everything feels as if it’s being washed away. In water so fresh, so clean, I don’t even have to try. Simply passing through this water would cleanse me. Especially since I’m so dirty. Even if I didn’t try, I’d look sixty percent cleaner, that’s how dirty I am.

But not anymore.

I rinse and rinse and rinse, enjoying the feeling of being cleaned. Of being freed of soot, and ash, and smoke. Of the smell of decay and devastation. Of magma and ends.

I clean myself up.

When I’m done cleaning my body, I clean my clothes. I rub the rags together, rinse off my goggles, clean off my coat. Every traces of the flames I came from are gone.

They’re washed away by the river.

Inhaling more of the clean air, I get out of the river.

Clearly, I haven’t had enough.

I wander.

I move forward.

This place is vast. Beautiful. As nightfall peaks over the horizon, I look back.

I see none of the devastation I come from.

Was it all a dream?

That’s how it seems, standing among the trees. Basking in the moonlight. Watching the lightning bugs wake, and hearing the gentle sound of the crickets. I feel the gentle breeze’s attempt to refresh me, and I know.

It wasn’t a dream.

Just because I can’t see the devastation, doesn’t mean it isn’t there.

I sigh.

There’s more devastation out there, I think to myself.

And I sigh again.

I sigh because the revelation dawns on me, and it weighs heavily. It isn’t as simple as remembering things I’ve forgotten, like my favorite watch or my favorite pants. This realization is a responsibility. An undertaking.

I have to go back.

The very idea squeezes me. My heart constricts at the thought, and my lungs give up a few coughs to remind me what I’ve left behind. In the hopes that, just maybe, I’ll remember it well enough to refuse to go back.

But I can’t.

I can’t simply ignore it:

I have to go back.

A tear trickles down my face as I think it in full. Drink in the realization, the pain it’ll cause me.

I have to go back.

Not to stay. No, certainly not. I could never, not after seeing this. Not after knowing that there is more.

But, they have to know too.

I didn’t live on the brink of devastation alone.

I don’t have any right to live in this haven alone either.

There are those who cared for me back home, and those who didn’t. But that, actually, doesn’t matter. Because whether or not I like those people is irrelevant.

This paradise was not meant for just me.

There’s far too much of it for me to have alone.

These two lands are linked. One meant to fall into the other. And, after seeing how the devastation is being pushed into the abyss, I don’t believe that other land is meant to last. Is meant to stay standing.

This one is.

These worlds that are linked…

They can be crossed.

Someone just has to reach out. To bridge the gap.

I have to go back.

Climbing into a tree, I settle down for the night and decide.

Two days. I’ll spend two days here, alone, in paradise. Recuperate from my trip here, and prepare for the trip back.

And then I’ll go, and I’ll tell them.

I’ll tell them the stories are true. That there is, indeed, a place without fire. Without scorching breaths and clotted lungs. A place where the water is cleaner than it needs to be, and the skies clearer than glass. A place where things are peaceful and still. Where the abyss doesn’t threaten us. A place where we can know more than just burns and scars.

A place where there is more.

Best of all:

They can find it too.