When, somewhere, it smells of the end – fringe or edge - of the world, of finis terrae, then I am seized by a strange impulse to keep going so far as to leave the last house behind me and see the path beneath my feet beginning to get worse and then suddenly to quite disappear – perhaps over a cliff, or on the fringe of a forest, perhaps also in the middle of a field. On occasion, the world of the paths ends at a grand vista point, where only the view can wander further – and this look is distinctly more courageous, heartier, stronger, and more longing when the body does not need to follow it.
Quite often, however, the path finishes in front of a garbage dump, or a barrier of a stinking industrial ruin, or a place with simply no attributes. That’s the reason that I ask myself why I persistently keep seeking the end. Perhaps I wish to reassure myself that the world of streets and pathways also has a limit – and that behind every bend does not wait another one. Perhaps, for me, it’s more often also about having traversed a path to its finish – at least about not having left out or missed anything on one of these finis terrae, or world-fringe. So I thought before. Lately, however, I’ve begun to harbour the suspicion that I’m not seeking an end at all. Rather, I’m looking for a place from which I can begin. World-fringes are undoubtedly good starting points because they assure you: Your backside is safeguarde
First Publication: 26-8-2014