Finally, I had reached the top. 

           Out of breath, I stepped up to the edge of the cliff, and peered into the deep abyss that lay below my weak knees. Clouds lay above and below the cliff with golden rays of warmth poking through the cracks. The view was fantastical, as if I was standing before the silver gates of heaven, staring into the afterlife, and  in a way I was. 

The climb here was recklessly carved by my own blackened, red hands like a flowing river shaping the dirt around itself, wild yet methodical. With each rock I climbed, falling seemed all the more easy. Through the harshest winters and hottest summers I climbed, watching as others fell beneath my feet.  And though I persevered through the harsh rains of hail and the fiery rays of sun, I still wonder if the climb was worth all the effort I laid forth. 

Was it worth every drop of sweat and blood I spilt just to get here? Was it worth every bit of pride and love I lost? Now that I stand at the top, I see the climb like a stranger admiring a painting in a museum. I see all of its flaws, but I am unable to change a single thing. Although, despite its imperfections, would I really want to change anything? With every stroke I fix I destroy the reckless elegance that gave my painting the meaning that it holds today. 

I leave this mountain with no regrets nor desires. I leave this mountain with no sorrow or will. I gave this world the legs it walks upon and now I must let this world run its course. For a father can not watch over his children forever. Now I must see what lies on the other side.

       I didn’t know what was beyond the low-hanging clouds that surrounded my feet, but I knew my end lay below me; that was all I really needed to know. Taking one last glance over the edge, I stepped back, took one deep breath in, and charged forward as fast as I could towards the edge. 

         I leapt off the cliff into the pearly silver gates above, before descending into the depths of hell below.