The snowy white field is both dangerous and the most alluring playground. The best of us, we veteran few that have survive it’s invisible trappings, fall to it’s hazards from time to time. The novice looks out over it’s massive face with both wonder and horror but seldom ever venture into it.
Many may see it, expanding into infinite dimensions, and wonder what the use would be to try and leave a mark. Along it’s gray borders stand the legendary adventurers; Steinbeck, Dickens, Joyce, Orwell, and if you believe in magic, Tolkien.
Compared to these, what chance does a new adventurer have? Though you might wade into the unknown, weapon in hand, what tactic could you possible apply that the great adventures did not already put to excellent use?
The nearly inevitable fate of the novice is dreadful. To venture forth, armed with the arsenals of the long dead legends only to have their weight drag you below the snowy field. Some march out into the blinding void with their heads held high, never to be seen again. Others pace it’s periphery, darting in with well practiced attacks, resupplying after every step, never making progress.
The novices thrash there, then sucome to that worst of ends, anonymity; their cold lifes work consumed by the white void.
Most just stand on it borders. Never fully recovering from the the sight of it.
How does one survive in that space, that bright emptiness lined and framed by the battlefields of those that survived, their violence marked by black glyphs that summon entire cultures to a high plane?
How did they survive it’s negative pressure, it’s disorientating lack of reference points?
I dare say they didn’t.
I think they are still out there in the snowy field. I think they still swim under that milk white trap.
So do not survive it. Do not fight it. Give yourself to it, so that your life might be consumed by it, and thereby, your headstone be a mile marker that all others may use to find their way.
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