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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