At the boundary, facing the truth of the infinite, to which I am truly connected. That which understands through non-syntactical thought. Lit directly by a high-latitude sun, covered by shallow lakes, stretching from the edge of humanity to the edge of the earth.
At the boundary, I sense a resolve. Death looms less as and ‘end’. It’s like I’ve walked a thousand miles north to find where a singular individual resolves themselves, extinguishing all sirens for a free-floating bandit.
I have an affinity for high latitudes and oceanic boundaries – the boundary to the edge, as if that’s where all of humanity resolves itself, simply by addressing its limits.
From Moby Dick…
“When I stand among these mighty Leviathan skeletons, skulls, tusks, jaws, ribs, and vertebrae, all characterized by partial resemblances to the existing breeds of sea-monsters; but at the same time bearing on the other hand similar affinities to the annihilated antichronical Leviathans, their incalculable seniors; I am, by a flood, borne back to that wondrous period, ere time itself can be said to have begun; for time began with man. Here Saturn’s grey chaos rolls over me, and I obtain dim, shuddering glimpses into those Polar eternities; when wedged bastions of ice pressed hard upon what are now the Tropics; and in all the 25,000 miles of this world’s circumference, not an inhabitable hand’s breadth of land was visible. “
“There can be no hearts above the snow-line. Oh, ye frozen heavens! look down here.”
Perhaps there is truth to this polar-coastal trajectory, to be found at the boundaries we find the most formidable.