I walk along a stone cliff. To my left is a mist, heavy and impossible to see through. A mist of nothingness. To my right, the cliff plunges down into darkness. I cannot see any bottom. Far out, far beyond reach is a ball of white light. It is the only true light in this world.

I stand on the cliff edge, looking at the distant light, yearning for it. It represents everything good, everything pure in the world. And surrounding it is black madness.

For years, millennia, I stand there on that edge, feeling the winds of absolute on my face. I know the light to be out of reach, and yet will not turn my back on it; to do so would be to turn my back on hope.

If only I had the courage I would leap from the edge. I know the light to be beyond the reach of a simple leap, but perhaps there is a way through the darkness. A path of belief.

But looking down, I hesitate. How many bones lay unseen at the bottom of the cliff? How many have leapt from the edge, only to discover their folly as they plunge into the darkness below?

Is the light reachable? Only one who had leapt from the edge would know.

In desperation, I look over my shoulder. The mist offers no light, but also no darkness. It is safe, without danger or hope.

Danger and hope... I chuckle as I idly wonder whether there is any difference between the two.

Movement in the mist catches my eye. A girl, perhaps ten years old, stands there, her blue eyes watching me. I smile at her but she doesn't react. Slowly she turns and walks away, her blonde hair fading into grey as the mist engulfs her.

I turn back to look at the distant light. Sometimes it seems closer, I think. For the thousandth time I wonder whether simply by waiting I might be able to catch it. But then I sigh, knowing that in the millions of years I've called to it, cried to it, never has it come close enough to reach.

Only ever close enough to call back to me.

Sometimes I wish I could rip its voice from my head and just turn to walk into the mist, such pain does it cause me. And yet... in spite of that pain, it comforts me. It gives me a reason to hope, something to strive for. Sometimes I talk to it, although as it is part of me I know what it would say anyway.

I keen as again it calls to me, seeming to shimmer closer than usual. It seems sad, as though it needs me as absolutely as I need it. Perhaps in its own strange way, it does.

Crying, I reach out to it, calling to it. I wish not to acquire it for myself; rather, I wish only to hold it, to comfort it.

But it makes no difference: we cannot reach each other.

Tears fall on the already tear-stained cliff as I cry. I wonder if it sheds strange tears of its own, but am unable to tell.

Clenching my jaw, I stand. This is it, I say. I will be without you no longer.

But I hesitate. My foot tries to lift, but with a silent curse I push it back to the ground, knowing full well that I have not the courage to take that final step, to give myself to the madness. Hating myself for it.

With a sad sigh, I sit on the cliff edge, looking at the light, yearning for it.

Days and millennia pass uncounted.

Such is my madness.