Evergreen trees, taller than the snowy peaks west of the Great Plate's rocky outcrops, stood strong at the precipice of the land.

All in all, there was no escape.

These freakish relics of nature resembled granite walls, rooted to the ground by the will of the earth. They were akin to a black screen marking a rational end to existence- hell, they sucked away weak wills like scoops of cherry-flavored jelly and regurgitated a pile of charred bits and pieces, bones and nature’s expansive leashes!

Charred and wiry was a pile of leaves amidst greener-than-life bushes, but the catch was that this certain pile turned to and fro like an addict looking back and forth between his “bug-infested arms”, almost as if the wind was scooping dead leaves from one hand to another, eyes wide in glee and a similarly ecstatic grin on its corporeal face like a child playing around with river clay for the first time. Only, the pile was not a pile of death but one of living decay; tilt the sights down in a gradual fashion and you’ll realize in horror that there is actual skin on the poor thing! Too much skin. It flapped over and on other folds of similarly loose skin, thin slices of splotchy brown flesh making thick grooves along the face. Skin so weary wrinkles were somehow discernible despite loose skin going as far as to mask the eyes and disfigure the nose and overwhelm the ears into subservience. Important sensory organs indeed.

But what does it matter when they were past even everyday use? In fact, they couldn’t even remotely function, skin so old it had suffered through the ancient swarms of Llora locusts down in the southernmost regions of the peninsula- entities quite similar to the all-encompassing trees, natural borders halting skin and bones from entering an entirely different realm, much like Llora locusts that refused to let even the common man go beyond the swampy plains of the south.

Small slits of open spaces nevertheless held eyes alight with an intelligent gaze. The flesh contained an intelligible soul within its being, even though their connection didn’t feel genuine, almost as if a spirit had possessed a most vacant vessel. A decrepit, washed-up vessel, but then again the thread of life that connected the two of them had existed for eons.

This old man held too many questions. Too many answers as well, just not enough time to comprehend and embrace any one of them.

Then the smell of sea salt, but sunlit shores were far from the naked eye- in view instead a crossroads between long flaxen grass and loamy mud.

A dark, gravelly line was etched into the earth two inches from the border between the two habitats, deep within alluvial soil the consistency of grainy clay. Bothersome to a wild degree, the asymmetry of the border’s alignment with the natural divergence would make any sane mind go haywire; annoyance, hysterics, and paranoia bundled into a sweet little package available to all who lay witness to said imperfection.

Smaller powers laid to the west, their wisdom a thing of the past and their customs to be frowned upon. They lived in a blessed land, eastbound winds bringing the ocean’s rich tidings to the ancient people of Mboro, blessing them with courage and the will to continue thriving. Never enough to inflate their ambitions- the breezes smuggled in small glimpses of tragedy and disaster every now and then. No need for imperious progress, when life is a perfect thing and nature need not be made to take a knee for mutual cooperation.

A conclusion reached: Higher powers had forced the age-old boundary into Checherka lands, yellow valleys and clear skies unknowing.

Too many deviations arising at the wake of a decadent era, too much left to be resolved and made sense of. Too little time for the able and the weary to lift the curse of desire and futility from young minds, too much of death witnessed to even attempt at facilitating change.

And then you find yourself amongst the grayest of rock, with all the stalactites and the flowstones and the stalagmites that make for a wonderfully typical cave. The expansive room up front, however, contained huge tablets of rock jutting out of similarly rocky flooring, intricate scribbles and chipped corners providing historical significance to the arrangement of tablets, so akin to the Ancients’ rather bizarre habit of arranging standing stones in a visually “appealing” manner.

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A weathered hand slightly grazed the calligraphic scribbles on the rock, eyes radiating waves of reminiscence.

Odd grooves and patterns on the rock became distinct illustrations of ancient men, all half-faded and incomprehensible without aid. The hieroglyphics ended up filling in for the rest of the picture- and a story came to life.

One of innocent birth, a lifelong connection forged in the process of coming to age. The best dandelions picked out of the brightest bunch, days of magnificent brevity, surrounded by familiar faces who made life go at a steady pace. Time to finally assume responsibility, going out to war with a lifelong companion. Living till an old age, tired and willing to forego change.

Loss, tragedy, achievement, and everything less savory in between. And death, well, the makers of this monument never died if death meant succumbing to wounds.

They decayed, in the way of a service man who spent his entire life in a bid to create and labor, surrounded by loved ones and petty rivals.

Blurry vision- and a water droplet landing on the ground like the Maker had begun his occasional meltdown. The cave was alight with natural light streaming in through the largely roofless top, thick blades of rock protruding up top like a hollow tulip. No rain in sight.

Grief, regret, relief- all encapsulated within that single tear. This type of elderly, that can’t guarantee the end and looks on with eyes half shut, has but a slight window of opportunity to convey inner turmoil.

Too many loose ends to tie up. Too little time to do so.

Forests. Green and willowy. Trees provided necessary shade from the sun, but one can’t help but squeeze themselves into the little spaces of sunlit crevices which the leaves fail to pass over. Earth the consistency of firm turf, untouched and whole, except for where the trees resided, or where shrubbery grew and sustained entire populations. It would certainly take a while to find a tree whose surroundings were virtually untouched by living matter.

But the forest is limitless. Perusing through it for the ideal location was but a matter of patience.

…Finally, a tree with surroundings as plain as a white sheet.

Furthermore, gusts of wind had chipped away at its weaker branches the day prior. One by one, they fell to the ground with pathetic thuds.

As soon as the perfect branch touched the ground however, it snapped into two halves. A hand grasped the sharper half, and the wanderer went to work.

Dig an inch; and then dig another; then stop to catch a breath, and continue digging once again. Twelve inches was a hallmark- it took a whole day after all.

Two feet, and then another- delirious, pained, resolute. Minutes became hours, hours became days, and so the effort persisted.

It took a full week for a hole to come into being. A shallow ditch, but deep enough nonetheless.

Reflection came to mind when eternal rest lingered in the shadows. The childhood memories, sweet nothings from overly protective parents, shallow adolescence, bright hopes, brave excursions, shattered aspirations, new realities, tragedy, pain, love, wisdom, desperation, confusion, acceptance, and last of all, an all-too-human question of whether a release from it all was truly worth compromising legacy.

But the digger was not human; too far gone. Neither a spirit, though it once was.

“Misery’s slave dies today.”

A step into the ditch, and another. Every sentient being must rest someday. The world can only hold so much regret.

Rest assured, nothingness calls.