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The Rubicon

by Steven Craig



As one approaches the end of something, the death of something, you will find yourself going downhill sometimes at a run, other times at a walk, perhaps at a crawl. To end something is easy, an easy walk down the hill. And as one walks ever more downwards, the sky grows perceptibly darker, the air thicker and damp with the musky smells of those that have already passed this way.

The further down the hill, the harder it is to stop for the ground is not firm, but
wet, covered with the long round shapes of decaying grasses. And at the first, progress
down the hill is fast, for the grade is steep, making it easy to progress toward the end, leaving no excuse to consider stopping the journey to the river laying at the bottom, unseen in the mists.

Further down the slope, the grade slackens, the air is like a weight upon your chest when you breath, the mists now so dense that the sun begins to fade, and even shadows blend into the dank ground that blossoms only mold. You know that you are approaching the river, though it makes no noise, you know its presence is there, though no sight of it reaches your eyes. It is still not too late to turn about, though the effort would be exhausting and consume energies that you may not know you possess. But the river is drawing you with powers of its own. It flows only because you are there, because you are approaching it. It draws its powers from you, the powers that make up life and love that you forsake with each step toward its banks. It is the river of loss, the river of woe, the river whose crossing has no return.

And the darkness is now completely about you, the slope of the ground is so
undetectable that you have lost your direction. You wander in the darkness without purpose. And it is a sudden realization that there is a darkness that is darker still, mirror smooth edging the mushy ground just at your feet. And you stand there facing it with labored breath, with heart pounding with rage and anger as the waters beckon you to cross and feel relief as though it was the first time in your life that you have felt such a thing.

You become aware of a dark figure standing at your side, its’ cold, fleshless hands assisting you into a small boat, handing you the oar, pushing you silently from the bank.
Perhaps, as some have, you only now realize what has happened, and where your path of decisions has taken you, and desperately you oar the boat back toward the shore, but the waters flow now in only one direction, and you are upon them, and they carry you away to the further shore, from which there is no return, no second chance, no recourse, no hope. And the dark figure waves you a despairing farewell with that same fleshless hand, and turns to wait the next angered, resenting soul that will surely approach.

The crossing is slow, an agony of pain and misery. Alone, you fade into the darkness, alone you vanish from those who will miss you, alone you cry what no one will ever hear, tears no one will ever heal with their touch. The crossing is an eternity.
In time, the little boat will nudge again the further shore. Its cargo now but molding bones laying upon its naked keel. And only then is the Rubicon is finally crossed.

It is often the hardest thing to do, to believe in something, to believe in someone. It is the hardest thing to do. But by far, the single most significant effort, is to utterly believe in yourself. Doubts and faults and lies and false assumptions and errors and fears, all contribute to making one fail. They contribute to the great failure, which is the crossing of the Rubicon, the river of no return. Oh, the times that your feet caressed its waters, oh the times that its cold heart drew from you your life's warmth and love, and sung to you the sirens song of hate of life, it spoke though your fears and took from you years of your life. It wanted nothing more that your life, your utter failure, your total ruin. That river is colder than any heart, or any devils embrace. The Rubicon ... I have seen that river, at the bottom of a great valley, with slippery and muddy banks, deeply hidden in the fog and mists of lies and speechless anger for both love and life ... I have seen that river, the dividing line between ones life and ones death. I have smelled that river, it is dank and musty and upon its surface floats the rotten flesh and decaying bones of the souls that gave in to the sirens song, that surrendered who they are to the evil and the rage and the fear. I have seen that river, smooth, formless, and nearly indistinguishable the water from the mud of the sickening shore. I have seen the river, it carries away all those that cast themselves upon it, it carries them far from this shore, to the further shore, where only death prevails, when only pain and suffering and torment actually begin.

Now, you have seen this river. God has pulled you back from its evil shores. Go there not again in your life. But remember it always, use its memories as a reminder, as a crop if necessary, to always lift your head up, to take your life and live it totally and not to drop into the abyss. Freedom and liberation have a price, to have them, you must be willing to do the hard and the impossible, to defend your life and thoughts and dreams from fear. You must snatch up every piece of happiness that does come your way, and never let a drop pass you by, you must make another's happiness essential to your own, you must never give up loving another in your life, you must always have a dream to hope for, a place to aspire to, a will to be the best in all things that you take on to do, to be alive and live fully and revenge those poor souls that were destroyed by the Rubicons sirens song. Now, you must smile for me, laugh for me, be happy for me, look forward to tomorrow for me, and thank God for me as well. And do so for the rest of your long and wonderful life.

Now, we both share yet something else. You have just experienced what it is like to do the impossible, you have returned from the river’s shore.

06/24/2006

Posted on 06/24/2006
Copyright © 2024 Steven Craig

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