He climbed. He hadn't moved like this in years and he could feel individual muscles ache with every movement, as if each was detached from the rest of his body, but singing in pain as a choir. Though it hurt, he felt better for it, where finally moving toward a goal, an end, was the force missing in his life. His fingers were sore, bleeding, the nails torn from trying to find purchase to lift himself a little further, and slowly upward he had come. The ground now far below.
He paused amount, stealing one hand around a crevice, whilst wiping a drop of sweat before it traced the corner and fell into his eye, and then moved his gaze upward again. Not too much further. It was far from an easy climb, but it was far from the most difficult he had done in his past. But this was different than those, for he had been a different man at that point. Not just younger, but driven. Almost fearless. Yet as age crept in and movement slowed, ambition settled into comfort, and then resignation. And when something stops moving, it dies. And death was now very near. But not today.
He looked at his hands, scarred and worn, dry with work and filled with the dust of the climb, and then shifted his eyes upward again, squinting into the whitened glare above, unable to tell if the sky was clear, or overcast. It didn't matter which, the heat was the same. Oppressive.
He shifted his weight and pressed upward, releasing one hand and looking for the next hold to further his journey. A natural ladder that was not made for men, let alone those of his build and declining body. Unphased by his unsuitability, he went on. Afterall, there was no way back down the way he had come, except for letting go. That would solve the problem. It would solve many problems. But his unwanted survival instinct prevented him from going through with it. His fingers would just not loosen. Cowardice.
Years of wanting to give in, give up, without the strength to do so. A life of marching on, one foot after the other, on a pathway to nowhere of consequence. A continual movement of life, devoid of living. If he had once had a soul, his had withered into dust, scattered to the wind long ago. Perhaps it was his own soul that now gathered under what was left of his nails, mixed with the blood that had kept his heart pumping, so he could continue on, pointlessly. Time passed, potential unfulfilled.
He looked down again and was surprised he had travelled a few more body lengths without realising he was climbing at all. Those moments lived, so close to death, unregistering on his experience. Time gone, moments unexperienced, yet he was there for them in body. Much like the experience he had led for years, moving like a shadow beneath the feet of a dancer, in perfect timing, but with no control of the journey, nor the destination.
With a last effort, his hands shifted over the last lip of stone and felt along the edge for something to give enough support to swing the rest of his wearied body over. And there it was, the root of an unknown plant, perfectly position and shaped to give the anchor he needed. He gripped, and then he pulled. His muscles tightening under the strain, and quivering under the skin, like they were trying to break free from their captor. But they held, and with a last effort, he lay prostrate on the hardened earth, face down and breathing heavily, not even able to roll over to lessen the pain of the stones pressing into his forehead and cheek.
A few moments passed and the thought of his purpose provided enough energy to finish what he had started and using what was left of the strength in his arms, he lifted and sat, knees bent, head resting, as he looked down at the ground between his legs, and noticed an ant travelling about its business, unaware of his presence. And he realised the ant was a fractal of his own experience, a life of misplaced importance, in a world too big to comprehend.
He looked up and saw the withered tree that had provided the root as a handhold. Another reflection of himself, dried, withered, close to death. The once vibrant colours of the leaves, now greyed, unable to find the energy to turn them green. Subsistence. He grimaced at the realisation of his own reflection and then turned his head slowly back toward from whence he had come, and looked out at the bones of the world.
He had been expecting beauty, mystery, and a sense of awe. Yet, with the world laid before him, all he had assumed vanished into the reality of what was there. A world he had seen before, greying, with the details blended into the ambiguous dust that hung in the air, like wildfires had moved through. From this height, nothing moved. It felt like finally getting to the end of a book that one didn't want to finish, and finding that the last page is missing. A disappointment due to the effort made, not in the desire to actually know the outcome.
He shifted his body as he felt the energy returning to it, as if it was fuelled by being unfulfilled and he lifted his spine straighter with resolve. He knew the truth. As truly as one could understand the comprehensible. And he understood what he must do.
Taraz
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A very inspiring article which is also reflected in our real life. Because sometimes we reach a position to achieve our goals when we look back and see something invisible and from where we will be completely lost if we turn back and it is very difficult to move forward but even then we have to move forward to achieve our goals.
I like that line. It makes me think he has a lot to live for.
Finally take that trip to Greece? Take up para-sailing instead? Maybe learn to play the piano? Dude needs a new hobby if his regular hobby makes him wanna jump.
Another fiction story! You're really good at this. The story is compelling, clear-visioned, and well told.
I must say that I really enjoy your prose style writing, as mentioned last time. Makes 2 out of 2 now. I hope you'll make it 10 in the near future, and then more!
I read too much thinking. To much philosophy. To much technical stuff. Reflections woven into creative combinations of words is something refreshing. Thanks for that.