I have been living in this cabin for the longest time I can remember, waking up and viewing the mountains, rivers, and plains from my window. I lived in that cabin alone—maybe not because I didn't want to be with people, but because I was the only person remaining to be with. Living chopping wood at least kept me busy when I had nothing to think about. All the years in the cabin, the only thing I got was the conscious mind to see the world as it was, not how my eyes or my emotions wanted me to see it.
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One thing I realized about being alone: it made me think rather than taking everything for granted. I was used to rethinking how nature and the outcomes of my life shaped me into the person I am today. I have tried to understand my life from the cabin—the echoes of the voice in my mind and the pure solitude that made me live like a person abandoned, but I wasn't. I chose that life.
The only place I got a glimpse of joy was from the river downstream, near the headquarters of our municipality. The scenery was logical, practical, and full of mystery that I always went down to crack and add to my collection of nature versus the existence of humanity—more about me than anyone. I would close my cabin and choose to walk down the road, the dark, grassy road full of branches that covered the passage.
I walked slowly, head down, hands in my long black blazer and a cap on my head, toward the bridge I used to watch. The bridge was the boundary between two different places. I never dared to walk past it because it was long and required clear documents for me to cross to the other side of the river.
I pushed the branches aside with my hand. The chirping of the birds and the cold, brisk breeze hampered my movements, but I wasn't going to stop—navigating down the path to take in the scenery.
The long walk ended at a smooth, winding road—less grassy, holding a few people who were all in a hurry to their own work. I was alone at that time; the people were all in one accord: we care for ourselves and our family.
At last, the loud, splashing water was heard, and the echoes of the sound hit hard on me. I was brave; as far as I can recall, the force of the water and the sound of it never made me quiver. It was all right.
The water flowed past the rocks and hit hard against the banks; the splashes made a sound so loud it was impossible to ignore. It was the rainy season, and the force of the water was strong based on how hard the rain fell. I watched how it moved relentlessly, flowing with a force it generated all on its own. It hit hard on the rocks, no matter how well it knew that the rock was hard. It flows over any barrier in its path, finding a way above every obstacle. That alone describes what you and I fail or fear to do.
I always watch what lies beyond the bridge—the new beginning of what I don't yet know. But I am sure that when I am strong enough, I will find ways to cross that bridge no matter what it takes. I know I have lived on this side of the river for a long time, and now I need to step forward and cross to see what lies ahead of me. One thing I know: whatever lies there is what I need, and I will reach it if I cross—if I have lived enough to level up to that life on the other side.
I left the river and moved back to my cabin, thoughts crisscrossing my head, every echo a blow I couldn't escape. Head down and mouth shut, what I carried in my mind was the resolve I needed to cross that bridge. I don't know when, but what I am sure of is that when I cross, I won't ever need to come back again.
Maybe I need to keep preparing.