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The Mountains We Climb
One foot in front of the other
We all climb mountains, and every single one of them, regardless of outside perspective, is daunting. They’re composed of histories, stories, external processes and pressures, and the compounding pressure of time. They’re built over the years and sometimes erupt in the space of a day. They don’t care what or who you are; in a way, their apathy towards your human condition is perhaps the most annoying. But they exist to be surmounted, and everyone, from paupers to princes, must climb them.
As with everything I try to write here, personal history is woven into the narrative. Moments are brought to the fore by looking at images I’ve taken, hints of a time past, or inspired by adjacent thoughts lived into the moments between. I can’t always tell where I’m going when I start typing, but I know where I’ll end up.
In a way, writing is a mountain that I climb daily. Writing is that steep cliff surrounded by the mists and fogs of heaven, birds circling to pick the scraps left in my wake. There are cuts and gashes across my head, hands, and heart as a consequence of each action, and though time heals all, there are scars aplenty. Sometimes, I need to relive those moments of collision and catastrophe, if only to remind myself and you, dear reader, of the inevitability of our decisions.
