And then wander around, and you shall find a river.
In that land, rivers are not sacred. They never had any beautiful children sacrificed for them. No one built pyramids on their brinks. No epics were written, nor holy books.
A goddess did not create that river, and once you see it, you shall know. You will know it is not the work of a deity, it’s human, flawed and – to be fair – mediocre. You won’t feel the spirit of the great Nubian goddess, you will not sense the heat of an overbearing sun protecting it and you will not feel the need to stand by its side and pray.
My daughter, the problem with your land being on the brinks of a divine river is that gods were never a humble bunch. And when they offer a glimpse from their spirit to create a marvel like our river, they expect you to admire their masterpiece, to kneel for it, to give up a part of your soul in return. That is the curse of our land.
Hence, my daughter, I ask you to take our river to its end, go beyond the sea, the walls, the barriers and defy our goddess mother. She will seek to distract you, to remind you that she is the protective goddess of its people but remember she is also the vengeful one, to remind you of her beautiful smile but keep going and remind yourself of her cruel sun. The godless river might not always merciful, it begrudgingly welcomes your kind and it will never be yours but you will also never be his, and this simplicity, my daughter, is the reason for its beauty.
It shall set you free from the burden and the guilt. A freedom that can never be had in the presence of a divine marvel. Once you’re there, the weight of the gods, the fathers, the sacrifices shall dissipate. You might lose your rhythm and some of the heat in your soul but trust me, my daughter, it is worth the sacrifice. For no one sane would ever willingly choose the company of gods or their marvels.
So once you find that river, relish its normality and lack of a divine soul. Let it set you free and indulge in its sun that doesn’t burn, and run. Run and never look back.