Snippet #2123324

Somewhere...
Late Winter, 1335
What is it that makes young life feel so unbearably uncertain? Aren't we bound to whichever roots we happen to come from? But if that's the case, how are we to know what we're capable of without having a grasp of where we come from? In search for such existential truths, John left had left his small village without any regrets or worries. Walking along no path, but rather the eastern shore of a river with no name he was aware of. Just travelling towards what he believed to be the south of England. With every step his surroundings became more and more covered in the deepest and darkest forest he'd ever imagine to see. Day and night only defined by the creatures roaming it rather than by a difference in illumination. For some uncertain reason, the young man felt no trace of fear rushing through his body. Every day, he woke up from the dirt. He felt the crust of mud on his legs break as he managed to stand up again. Once or twice, he saw alien lights from the distance. It had been too long for him to have retained the track of time and yet he feared leaving his self-imposed pilgrimage. Leaving it or even loosing sight of it for even a single moment could finally mean the loss of any possibility to discover -or should I say retain- any connection to his origin. It is fortunate to say that the river not only proved a companion and protector during his solace, but also a nurturing mother. It's waters being the nurturing milk that allowed him to keep on walking and it's fishes the only food he was able to prepare without walking out of sight.