[ WP ] The Earth does not rotate . One side always faces the sun and is in continual daylight . The other side is in eternal night . Cultures on both side develop around this .

It has been said that the world is divided, that we live in two realms – the world of light and the world of dark – but this is not true. There is that thin, smeared border between the two, the world of my people. Grey, muted light filters through the trees - a land of shadows, of smoke and surreal landscapes. It is the point where the snowy north melts into the sticky, heavy heat of the south, the point where the two cultures collide. I like to think of it as purgatory, the last stretch between two worlds. In this quiet valley are the outsiders – those who fit in neither the light nor the dark lands. I have had the opportunity, although brief, to travel to the two outside worlds, and I can say definitively that I prefer my shadowy existence above all else. 
 
 
 The south is an area that I never wish to return to. The sun hangs in the sky, a violent shade of orange, ceaselessly watching the world below. The heat is oppressive, giving way to tropical forests teaming with noisy insects, miles of scorched earth and desert sands; and beaches, piss warm and filled with bodies desperate to cool off. It is a land of hostility – the unending Cyclops sun burning a sense of rage into all that face its gaze. The south is known for its violence, but no amount of vague story telling could have prepared me for what I saw in my travels there. Gangs of children roamed the streets, rags tied over their faces to protect against the sun, machetes in hand to protect against the unknown. The elderly, creased with thousands of lines, age spots like paint spilled into all corners of their faces, would kick dogs in the street, spit at women through the holes in their teeth, and yell obscenities at all that passed by. Insanity seems to grow each year – days blend one into the other with no sense of time, no border or edge to it, no shape. Cocaine and amphetamine use runs rampant, as bodies brutalized by heat exhaustion and lack of sleep cling desperately to any form of energy they can find. It was not uncommon to find bodies rotting in the sun, pushed to the corner of the street and ignored as easily as the afternoon trash. I once found a stray dog, thin and grey, gnawing happily on the foot of a child, and it was shooed away only when the stench became unbearable to the pregnant prostitute across the street, who rubbed her tits lazily as I walked by, shouting “ I ’ m not full yet baby. ” 
 
 
 The north is no better. It is a bleak place, an endless blackness, filled with snow. Vegetation is minimal, with tough meat and root vegetables making up the majority of one ’ s diet. It is a place known for its high suicide rate, an act more commonly described as “ forgetting to wake. ” Many find it impossible to live in the stunted, bitter cold that exists in the north. The elderly, the single, the weak and the hopeless – all find themselves falling into a deep, apathetic slumber, their bodies later found, desiccated and pale, the only color to their translucent skin coming from the raw, pink bed sores that litter their legs and boney hips. With physical beauty often impossible to distinguish in the eternal night, the inhabitants of the north are known for placing a precedence on the sound of one ’ s voice. The ability to hunt and raise livestock is only narrowly seen as more important than the cadence of one ’ s voice, although even this comes with heavy rules and stigma. The family that hosted me during my travels to the north had a teenage daughter, Shashara. She could often be heard in her room, giggling with her friends as they whispered songs to one another, practicing melodies to impress the local boys. I once asked why they practiced so quietly, and even through the darkness I could feel the heat of her blushing. “ It ’ s immodest to sing! ” she exclaimed, “ Please don ’ t tell my father that you heard me. ” I kept her secret, knowing that the social repercussion for a transgression in the North – isolation – was often as deadly as the violence in the South. 
 
 
 Living on the border is like a life stuck between dreaming and wakefulness, that thin edge between before and after, night and day. It may be purgatory, but I wouldn ’ t trade it for any other life. 

