The Golden Fields

“Fox, do you think there is a place beyond these fields?” the phantom had asked one day, a time long before Reapers had dominated the Golden Fields. “I’ve spent my entire life here and haven’t found an edge,” the fox had answered, eyes glinting with something sharp and

Caliban darts between golden stalks. He knew it would come to this, he just knew it. His small, agile frame is hard to track in the dark, but he still worries the rustling grass will give his position away. Not much farther now, he thinks to himself. He bursts into

“What d’you think’s out there?” Antwohnette sits on a rickety porch propped up on makeshift stilts, staring out across an endless sea of amber grass. Caliban curls up next to her. “Trouble,” he says. Antwohnette runs her hand through his black fur. “You think it’s worth it?

At long last I came to the Golden Fields. I expected feelings of relief and fulfillment, but instead felt a gnawing hunger. A Reaper approached me and handed me a scythe. Reaper: Welcome, Watcher. We have long expected you. With this tool you can reap to your heart’s content.

I’ve been gone for a time, fellow travelers, wandering the aether. From irrational beginnings, we take our first steps into strange worlds. Pieces of ourselves can be found strewn about. We struggle for meaning. The journey continues… Meaning is a marathon. It is nurtured, found in fragments not wholes.