To The Edge of The World (first letter)

Sometimes I think I know where you are but it’s changed a lot, and there’s been moments when I thought there wasn’t something like you for any of us. When I was a kid you lurked where the forest became too thick to see through. You’d wait beyond the places where the neglected fences and parking lots of the city’s hinterland disappeared into weed grass, culverts and darkness. There were parts of you where I doubted anyone could live. There are those spaces beneath water gone black with depth, or inside unimaginable white heat and light.
I’d wonder what was beyond the squall of winter blizzards. Could your outer reaches be found under the snow left behind?
The most obvious site lay just beyond the close of the horizon. This is where you had to be — concerned with nothing — the business of your existence transpiring forever without profit or interest.
Many have looked for you, not to join you, but to claim you, or perhaps to fortify the border. Some want to escape something. Many think they’ll obtain you in isolation, but you’re not found in ourselves, are you?
I think I know now what you are, but this doesn’t necessarily mean you exist.
I think you’re everything before we name it.
How do I get to you?