The Path called Death

In the dark forest called Fear, past the river known as Sorrow, where the branches of the trees of Despair claw at the wanderers and the fruits of Insanity tempt the passerby, where the perpetual thunderstorm of Anger is constantly on the verge of a lightning strike, where the harpies of Yearning caw meanacingly in the forever shadowed sky of Worry, there is a path named Death.

Travel down that path, deep into the heart of Fear, past the Sorrow, past the Despair, past the Insanity, the Anger, the Yearning, the Worry. Travel down that path, that path called Death.

In that dark, dim forest, where damned souls meander between the trees, forever lost in the dark forest that they have learned to call home. They drink from Sorrow, they let Despair grope, they feast on Insanity, they let Anger and Yearning rule their lives and cower under the sky of Worry. Why? Because they are afraid to travel down that path, that path called Death. They know that the journey down the path is inevitable, but they still shirk from it; they do not know what is down that path but yet they still avoid it, simply because whoever travelled down that path never returned. So they avoid it, shirk from it, until the day comes that they must travel down that path and they finally realize what it is that is at its end. Travel down that path, follow that path, obey that path and whatever lies at its end.

Go down that path, the path called Death, the path that lasts an eternity, the path that leads into the center of Fear. Go down that path, and you will find a garden. The walls of the garden are just higher than your line of sight, but when you jump, the walls seem to grow higher as well, just to shrink back again as soon as your feet touch the ground.

Lilac spills out of the garden, like a purple drink over the rim of a mug. Vines reach over and poke cracks in the wall for strands of sunshine to ooze through. An assortment of fruits hang just out of reach on the branches peeking out of their garden shelter, their sweet aroma ligering in the air. Listen closely; at the center of the garden a fountain burbles. The fountain of Joy, the garden of Hope.

Eagerly, you run along the circular wall, looking for a gate. You find one; it is solid, made of wooden planks, rectagular and plain, out of place in a delightful garden with a beautiful stucco wall. You push it open and run inside, into the garden of Hope.

But the garden is dark and bleak, as dark and bleak as the forest beyond. The stones that form the paths are cracked, dead weeds sprouting between the granite slabs. Barren trees stand mourfully between the empty flowerbeds, and even the lilac near the edge blooms only on the branches that reach outside the walls. In the center of the garden, the center of forest, the fountain of Joy runs dry.

Indeed, this is the garden of Hope, promising much but granting nothing. That is all Hope is good for: making empty promises, then laughing evilly as they all fall for her trick, one by one.

When Fear kisses Hope on the lips, the two shall mingle, and both shall be quenched. But that day is still far, far away.

The lost souls who have journeyed for so long down the path of Death cry out in dismay as they stand before the empty fountain of Joy. This garden is no better than the forest outside, but now they would have nothing to look forward to, nothing to keep them going. They realize, finally, that the promises made by Hope held no real meaning and were simply empty words, empty whispers, empty visions, empty promises. At the end of their strength and utterly betrayed, they collapse in pained and weary heaps and die.