On route to experience the paranormal, I walked for days through a downpour of incessant wind and rain, climbing out of the storm by traversing the face of a cliff to its uppermost ridge. I found myself standing at the rim of a dormant volcano, an island high above an ocean of clouds. I was at the cusp of two worlds. Treetops of the forest from which I had emerged swayed like soldiers marching en masse up the slope. Inside the enormous crater was a frothy lake of whiteness. As a bird, I imagined diving off the edge into its center. The crater’s transmutable powers were legendary. The indigenous tribes who inhabited this mythical region told of a curse placed upon all recipients who ventured inside. But being one of many travelers to this cavity of wonders, and one practical in matters of the mind, I descended willingly knowing this vortex purportedly altered forever anyone who entered. Becoming deranged ghosts of their former self – or so the fable went, told by those who feared to risk taking the journey themselves. Still undeterred, harboring the notion I was the captain of my own vessel, I submerged self-assured into the vaporous waves. Instinctively I held my breath as if expecting to swallow water not air. Breathing relief, I laughed, and continued to sink. Yet I wondered as I gazed upwards at the cloudy atmosphere overtaking me if this desire to look up was a vestige reflex clinging to my soul. Was it a primal need to want to see a god looking down to guide me? Which was funny. Finding instead the quarter moon turned on its side in a wide grin, its blind eye dissolving before me in a wink.