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Pixabay
Edge, That's where you can't come back from a blast that's quiet like a whisper, yet owl with voices pushing you through a stream of twisted roots and irregular rocks, that feel alive. Every step feels like the same worn path is following you, trying to swallow the memories of who you used to be.
And your way always gets very tight and becomes a dark and dense separation, with a cold fog coming out of it. It's called the throat of oblivion.
Here the remnants of your life fade away, exchanged for the screams of those, who came before you, souls that have long gone seem to cling to the walls like an endless and silent tear, trying to drag you into silence.
The road stops at the end of the gorge, right on the edge of a dark and inky river that is as thick as tar. There's no boatman, just a rotten boat roaring alone, hitting with a deafening noise against the shore It's the time of the decisive journey as you go up.
Dead water doesn't reflect your face, but it's like your mind is playing tricks with ghostly and stretched creatures swimming underneath, their shadows rubbing against the edge of the boat, you know, with certainty that the residual soul will freeze you, that if you fall, your suffering won't be a drowning, but an eternity being devoured and rebuilt in that pain.
The other side is not a destination, but an enormous and shadowy gap, a void that breathes an unpleasant smell in an open grave. The entrance is here, and his silence is the scariest clue of all, the promise to forget everything on purpose, where all that will last for centuries is the moment you realize your soul will never find peace.