This is a myth written for school
The house I grew up in was beautiful, an old place, full of memories and dreams. Imagine a huge square farmhouse, can you see it? See the rickety porch extending from the ratty screen door; see the expanse of field it beholds. See the red barn, hay pouring from the loft, see the animal pens, muddy and stinking. See the pasture and the rows of crops, peas and beans and potatoes and corn. Then see the wall.
The wall is made of a stone I never could identify; to this day I have not seen it anywhere. It was smooth and perfect, always warm to the touch. Eighteen feet high, the barrier wrapped our land, containing our lives and everything in them. There was no gate, no dip or ladder, and the top was adorned with impassible metal spikes. Our family did not build it, nor any family that shared the house, it was simply there, existing.
Growing up, my parents always told me this was my place, I would live here my entire life. I would become a farmer and marry one of the daughters from the other families, eventually creating my own family here. I would live on this side of the wall, and when my time came I would be buried on this side of the wall. I was a model of obedience to this plan on the surface, but deep inside it made me uneasy. Was here all I was ever to see? Was there nothing more? I never asked these questions, knowing I would not get an answer.
My dreams were always the same, of what laid on the other side of the wall. Of course I had no idea, but this only freed my imagination more, made my thoughts more endless. As I grew up, I realized what these dreams meant. I wanted to get to the other side, more than anything else.
When I was twelve, I tried for the first time. I walked to the stone with a chisel and hammer swiped from my father’s workshop. For an hour I chipped away at the rock, but the chisel continuously slipped off the smooth surface, and after the hour I had barely had made a crack. What’s more, the next day when I returned to the same spot with the tools the crack was gone.
I left it alone for a while then, frustrated and angry, walking away from my the other side of the wall. I forgot my hope. I didn’t dream. Ambition rushed out of me like a broken faucet.
And then, four years later on the eve of my sixteenth birthday, the dream returned. Only it was different.
I was walking through a field, long yellow grass brushing along my legs. There was a warm breeze and the sun shone brightly. This confused me for a second, my subconscious knew that it was winter but my imagination took over and dismissed this. There was nothing in the field, yellow stretching out to a horizon that was rimmed by perfect sky blue. And then, in the way of dreams, I knew I had to turn around. I turned and saw it. On the opposite horizon, the other side of the wall. There were dark clouds hovering over the middle, and I could just make out snow falling. I ran towards the wall, crossing over the huge expanse in seconds, in the way of dreams. I reached the stone. I stretched out my hand to brush the familiar rock, only strange because it was convex instead of concave. But my fingertips hit no wall, passing through the surface. I walked forward, sliding through the solid with no opposition. The interior was warm, just like the surface. I came through the other side and saw my house. I walked to it, went inside and to my bedroom. My bed was empty. I climbed into it and faded to sleep. All of this was, in the way of dreams, completely natural.
The next morning, I knew exactly what I needed to do. Before anyone woke, I got up and dressed, silently leaving the house. My boots made footprints in the new snow, following identical ones leading the opposite way. I did not slow as I reached the wall, rather shutting my eyes. The warmth wrapped around me and then I was through. I opened my eyes to see the field from my dream, endless grass in all directions. The wall was passed, and victory was mine. I walked away from my previous life, into the sunlight and new places.