Once I tried to find the sky's edge.

It had never occurred to me before to look for an ending to that great canopy of light. No innocent curiosity even suggested such a thing to me. I was happy and content living beneath it, and never thought twice about it, until I reached that age during which learning and questioning is first and foremost. Then, one day as I looked up at the sky, I began to wonder where its end was. Was there ever a boundary, a stopping point to its breadth?

My pupils dilating as I faced the sunshine, I lifted them ever upwards. I looked and looked for an ending point of that vast blue expanse, but though I strained my eyes to bursting, I could find no stopping point. My gaze became blurred and lost itself in the unending blueness of the sky.

At the time, it frustrated me. What weakness on my part prevented me from seeing clearly? I yearned to see the end of it, to understand what hung above me. It plagued me that every time I sought, though I could clearly see a color, I could see no shape or end to it. For my growing mind was curious, and my soul hungry. My whole being was eager to understand, and felt crossed by that which remained a mystery.

At length I put my frustrations aside and ignored them. Why should I pursue that which only served to confuse my mind and senses? I lowered my eyes, forgetting the annoyance my lack of perpetration inflicted upon my senses, and paid the sky no heed. Not until recent years did I finally concede to lift my eyes up once again to the challenge of seeing the sky. I did so, and beheld its seeming endlessness once more. This time, however, my mind did not revolt against the muddled vastness. My eyes did not feel strained; instead they felt eased, unforced. I began to find peace with the sky.

My eyes had seen a strange beauty in the maddening mystery of the sky. Its spread flowed ever on, pristine and blue with a hue both consistent and unchanging, yet always new. My soul rejected the vain struggles my ambitious mind had inflicted upon it; the sky was beautiful, and I could no longer struggle against it.

Gradually I have accepted that I will never see the end of the sky, or fully understand its nature. I know that it is a living, thriving thing, for rain comes from it to feed the growing earth as well as violent winds that rampage civilizations, and the great bright sun that glows with motherly warmth. I know that I will never be able to touch it, taste it, or even see it clearly. It is beyond my comprehension. But this fact no longer frustrates me.

I discovered early on the mystery of the sky, and I have grown to love it for that very quality. For if I could see the sky's edge, and even touch it, the world would not be as it is. The sky would be a roof, not a sky, and we would be caged beneath it. The air would not flow freely as it does from every crevice of its domain. We would be prisoners of the sky instead of free, independent beings.

Now that I have accepted this, the sky has ceased to be my enemy, and become a constant source of awe. I no longer strain my eyes, vainly trying to find its end. Instead I gaze into its endless seas of blue; the warm spread of its brightness seeps into my very eyes; and I contemplate the beauty of its mystery.

A/N: I hate fables that end with an explicit moral that cannot be taken in any but one way. To me, everyone's interpretation of a given story is personal and unique. That said, this fable is an expression of something I hold very dear, but I am certainly not trying to preach or force an interpretation on anyone. If any readers can relate this fable to their particular circumstances, I consider it to be successful.