Sometimes I like to come here so as to be reminded of the endless possibilities. Sitting by the river — which flows furiously down the mountain — , I lose myself in the horizon; on the other margin of the river, the taller trees dance to the breeze and all mountains in sight have their tops kissed by the sun, making them look as friendly challenges. This is my favorite spot to come, sit and think. The calm landscape makes a sharp contrast with the unforgiving river. Over the years, people have been tempted by the landscape but had their thirst for adventure drowned in these waters. The more conservative ones will tell you the river has currents and undercurrents. As for me, I only see a river with a life of it’s own. Among my people, there is a legend that says that the river was once calm and tame. At least until men had discovered there was gold in its waters. Then came more men. And men were dirty and rude and didn’t respect the river. They fought and killed each other over pieces of the gilded rock. Eventually the river got so mad that it started drowning everyone who disrespected its waters. I grew up respecting but also loathing this river. My Mom used to say I was a mountain eater, in the sense that I had explored all there was to explore around our home. But I wanted more — and that meant I had to cross the damn river. My previous attempts (five, to be exact) had all resulted in my almost death. The thing this damn river doesn’t seem to understand is that I don’t fear death. It would be a more painful death not to experience what it on the other margin — one cannot feed his soul on what ifs. So here I am again, on my favorite spot, inspired by what lies ahead, determined to survive the crossing of this angry and vengeful river. I hope the river understands that although I respect it, I need more. I need the unknown, I need whatever it is that lays after that horizon.