It churns beneath his feet. Drags himself up another steep mile. Anything to get to the top, he decides. Anything and then you can settle for nothing. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(this is his life)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On the still days, the water laps against the rocks, meeting lips with the mountain for a brief blink of an eye only to be sent away just as quickly. The moment is so quiet, so intimate, that he cannot watch (not for long, at least) without feeling intrusive.

 

Still days do not last for long. When he looks back down, the intimate reunion is over, replaced by the water’s wrath, so destructive and imposed to kill that it shatters the night. Crash crash crash, the mountain has done something wrong, stood too still and too far away for the water to taste.

 

And the water is greedy. Waves collapse against black cliffs. Yes, he remembers. Shivers from the wind’s shaky sighs. The water wants everything.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

If he thinks harder, eyes glazed in concentration, he can picture it. Earth. Dirt beneath his soles and in between his toes. Smell of the sun, sticky and orange on their bare skin. The river, blue and cold in the summer time, extending its long arms down to the delta. The sea, navy and endless on the horizon.

 

The mountain and its shadow, waning and growing with each coming hour. What surrounded it? His eyebrows crease. It was not water.

 

Something green and brown and yellow. Something dry.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Three thousand four hundred fifty-two steps. And another, and another, and another. Breathe, once more and now another one, breathe to quench your lungs. They are burning, burning with water and fluid and everything that can’t come out. So stuck, lungs, surrounded by ribs and a fragile heart. So stuck, but the feet have to move. Watch, the water kisses the rocks of yesterday, sweeps and weathers the cave with salty spray. The foam flies up up up to the sky, white against white. 

 

So stuck, so far away. The water wants to touch the sky with a pale grey finger. Lungs heave. Waves bang against cliffs. 

 

Three-fourths of the mountain to go.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The rocks drip with moisture. The cave is saturated, spray coating the ceiling (it’s not very high). It dampens his hair, clings to his coats. He sits, reluctantly and humbled, gnawing on dried meat. Tastes like salt, just like he’s surrounded by it. 

 

Tries to light a fire. The sparks don’t catch on the flint. He sighs, lungs watery. Stuck. There is no orange or red that day, just the endless monochrome of the mountain and its soul mate, screaming.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Feet squeal. Can’t take this anymore, can’t do this, please stop, please, I’m begging you, we need to stop. His chest feels heavy. Maybe it’s his heart, fierce pulse that threatens to distort his bones. The walking stick strikes stone. Black chips off.

 

Maybe it’s him. His eyes wander down to the river sea, roaring in anger. Black gets lost in the shifting horizon. Did they even hit the water? The walking stick strikes again. His fingers slip against cliffs, numb and red. Did they leave a wake of their own? 

 

Gaze finds its way down again. The river sea howls like a primal beast. 

 

Would he?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(two-fourths to go. neck cranes to count the cliffs. two more god damn fourths)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And behind closed eyes, the burnt umber of his eyelids, he searches for a reason within himself to strike the walking stick once more. The flint won’t catch, the salt covers his skin. Why do you walk on?

 

Cliffs, water. Umber. Perpetual winter and the wretched river sea. Why do you walk on?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He tips on the edges of his worn boots several times. Eyes bleary and red. Blurs of rock, blurs of sky, blurs of water, black white and white. Mouth opens to swallow wind. Pushes it down. It is not a hearty enough meal for his lungs.

 

Walking stick strikes stone. Black crumbles, flies into a white abyss. Up, he remembers. And the feet cry, slower and louder than usual, but this is all he remembers. Not summer time or long arms of the delta. 

 

The summit, he screams to the primal beast. The summit.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Eight thousand seven hundred and thirty-six steps. Everything is burning. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Monochrome blurs to yellow, to orange, to green. Earth. Blue sky, blue water. Sea kisses sand. It glitters like droplets of water against white.

 

The heavens were a long way up. Figures like him, breathing with stuck lungs and pulsing hearts. Feet planted on something, something dry.

 

And they called it land.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(the walking stick strikes rock. black chips into the water.

 

they do splash)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The river sea climbs with him, his painful pace, the dragging of limbs across slick stone. Yells relentlessly, thundering in his ears. He cannot decipher what it says. Can’t see it anymore, either. White blurs with black into a muddled grey, starkly cold against his skin. 

 

Two thousand steps ahead. Looks up once. Six grey cliffs muddle a white sky.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The walking stick cracks against stone. This time the stones win. Splintered wood falls into the river sea. The water swallows it with one gulp and gives nothing back. 

 

He cracks against stone. Back to the last cliff. And he wonders if it hurts to be waiting, anticipating, for something that is bound to happen occur. 

 

Umber. Perpetual winter and the wretched river sea. Black cliffs, white water, and red blood, painting the summit as a memoir, making the mark of forever.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(when he opens his eyes all he sees is white.

 

all is silent)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The river sea reaches, outstretched fingers on a strained palm. The mountain lurks beneath, black shadow in the depths of white, a painful reminder of a love went wrong.

 

Hand retracts. The arm swings again, loping and wild, but the sky is not kissed by its probing fingers. It howls like a primal beast, unsatisfied and pained.

 

The sky looks down. Remains still. 

 

And all is silent.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(the red rusts to mahogany and then a faint umber, sinking beneath currents of foam. sinking, sinking, sinking until it touches earth, yellow, orange, and green, before the water pushes it up again to reach for the sky. they call this place land.

 

and the heavens are still a long way up.)