THE UNBOUNDED

Before you begin...

Every word of The Unbounded was written with feeling—
but none struck deeper than this chapter.
It was not just a piece of writing,
it was a cry—
born from the heart of a night
when I had no one,
no light,
no clear way forward.
And still, I wrote.
Maybe that's how this story found its voice.

Now, we go back to the past—
to the days when life was in motion,
to the days when running could be for play—
and not just a sign of escape.

To the days when fear did not rule,
and yet—it was there.
For how could there be no fear?
Where fear is absent,
madness takes hold.

Back to the days when every rustle in the bushes
didn't always signal a black snake hiding within—
perhaps it was just a rabbit or a mouse,
foraging for food.

The otter played joyfully with mud and twigs beside his companion.
He caught a fish and gave it to his beloved.

A lamb raced across the meadow.
A puppy chased after him,
and a young donkey, eager to join,
charged ahead of them both, braying.
Until all three, worn out from play, collapsed to the ground.
Their mothers trailed after them.

They were days of joy.
Even the endless braying of donkeys could bring laughter.

The donkey brayed,
the elephant trumpeted,
the chicks chirped,
the horse neighed.

And the voices of the forest folk blended together,
rising up to strike the mountain,
echoing back across sky and earth—
and this was the forest's song.

The poor little goat and the mountain deer
stood baffled on the foothills:
"Why does the mountain echo
with the bray of a donkey
and the caw of a crow?"

Water and grain were abundant,
fruits hung in plenty,
and the grass stood tall and green—
no creature knew hunger.

Zebras grazed,
then rolled in the grass, carefree and content.
The calf nursed sweet milk, murmuring in delight.
Life was in motion.

There was flirtation, affection,
shy glances,
and the thrill of longing.

But more beautiful than all of this—were the nights.

The sky spread its stars across the forest.
Every creature searched for its own star.
The brightest stars were said to be ancestors—
beloved souls long gone.

Fireflies brought the stars down to earth.
The foals and pups began to frolic,
trying to catch the stars.

The fireflies slipped among the tree branches,
cast a glow on the fruit,
and made the cows' mouths water.

Night had its own song.
The cricket had the finest voice.
But the most beautiful sound
was the soft rhythm of a mother licking her young.

And finally—
mates curled up,
tribes drew near,
heads resting on each other's shoulders,
or on the soft forest floor.

As sleep crept in,
an owl would call,
from the darkest part of the night.
They heard it—
and let sleep take them,
so they wouldn't hear what came after.

They slept,
and in their dreams,
they saw the next morning:
grazing, feeding, loving—
and the forest that sheltered them.

But the forest...
the mountain...
the plains—
they were awake.

They could not sleep.
They heard something.

Someone was awake.
Far away—
in a place no eye could see.

Perhaps deep in a canyon.
Perhaps high upon a mountain.
But still, within this world.

It cried—
moaned...
howled in sudden bursts.

Its howl had torn sleep
from both sky and soil.

Such sorrow in that cry.
What had broken it so?
Had a lover shattered its heart?
Had it lost someone to death?

No.
This was no common sorrow.
This was the kind of howl
that could stop the wind.

It spoke of a greater pain—
something beyond itself.

Its cry had calmed the river.

Why was no one with it?
Why did no voice answer?

What fault gave rise to this aching solitude—
What had it done?
What had it not done?

What was this chain
that bound it so tightly—
that it screamed and screamed
against its grip?

What is it with you, companion of the dark?
Have you torn yourself away—
or have you been torn from?
Did you leave—
or were you cast out?

How did you reach that corner of loneliness?
What did you see?
What did you hear—
that left you so sorrowful?

What weight lies heavy on your heart?
Are you crying out against this world—
or calling out to God?

And these sleepers...
what has become of them,
that they cannot hear you?

What is it you seek?

Little by little,
that lone chest's cry grew quiet.

The fireflies, too, had no light left to give.
They dropped slowly from between the leaves,
landing softly on the ground.

The stars, ashamed, faded.

Dawn arrived.

And the sun, straining,
dragged itself up over the earth.

The rhythm of life began again.
And that burned-out voice was silent.

The roar of the lion
shook the forest awake.

From the highest rock,
he let out another thunderous call—
reminding all of his might.

Then, he moved.
Running down the mountain,
he entered the forest.

The creatures, watching from a distance,
bowed in his presence—
hoping that by doing so,
they might be spared.

And the lion saw it all—
the fear in their eyes fed his strength,
more intoxicating
than the taste of flesh and blood.

Thank you for staying with the story

If this chapter stirred something in you—joy, sorrow, wonder—let me know.
Your voice matters, and The Unbounded grows with every word you share.
Until the next howl...