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Jericho the Wanderer

When you're twice as lost as everything around you, you become a drifter.

In life we spend a lot of time assigning purpose to everything. We teach ourselves all about existence and why breathing is important. We build our lives into homes for our souls. Then we die and those homes we created, that knowledge we thought could save us, fades into nothingness. We become little more than impressions in the memories of people and places that used to know us.

Thinking back, the thing I wish I'd have paid more attention to wasn't my wife, my children or my garden, but my cataracts. I was half blind by the time I died and oblivious to the warning my failing vision was giving me: This is your future. Prepare yourself.

Dying was like waking into a dream; I fell asleep in reality and awoke into a Surrealist's nightmare.

The very material of existence hung around me, like the beginnings of an unfathomable tapestry, exposed threads winding off into the distance. Incredible beasts sat hooking their claws into the threads, patiently weaving the beginnings of life into creation.

Following the threads, I began searching for something I could make sense of, certain they would lead to somewhere if only I followed them long enough.

I had been lost before, when I was alive and felt I had an understanding of life, but even then I still retained some concept of where I was: Giverny, Venice, London, somewhere. Here, in this Underworld of wandering souls, I know nothing. I was lost to begin with, but now that I've been stripped of even my most basic understanding, I'm missing the sense of purpose and importance my previous life had been imbued with.

Infinite had simply been a word to me in life and while I imagined many things, I never thought anything could be as truly endless as this.