The Climb (short story)

How do you describe a man with words when, in isolation, he only communicates with his eyes? His expressions really are just that – the only outward sign of such heavy thinking that most men cannot stand to entertain it. Indeed, even those who do face such issues head on must take respite; on their way to the mountain top they must rest in uncomfortable nooks, aware of the biting cold outside; the perilous drop: only sleep can fool them into thinking they are not in the ascent. Steadily, they must abandon all that they thought they would need: their equipment is shed slowly, like a snake’s skin. Even those items he thought impossible to discard will be: eventually he is has no rucksack, no medication, no food and no clothes: he sees the summit of the mountain, but the energy with which he started has long since been drained. All that remains is something akin to hope, but not so simple: it is resolve, a gritty perseverance. There is romance in whatever it is, but it is not beautiful; it is something like world-weariness; it is the need to drink the draught of truth. He must feel it pass his lips and warm him from the inside, and then feel it chill his blood and shoot lightning through his veins. He must drink it, even if from a poisoned chalice. At the summit lies the truth: a small fountain – he never imagined it so small – moving with the hyponotic motion of water in the air, into the sky and tricking back down again – its colour cannot be described: it is the prism of all colours the moment before they intertwine into white: it is all. But he has not yet made it there: he can only see it. How he longs to taste it – but he can only see it. He is now crawling towards it. His nails are bleeding and the gravel of the path is replacing his skin. But what is pain to truth? It is the very fuel required to get there. The sound of a body hauling itself in slow, steady, rhythmic movements towards a goal cuts through the low whistling of the wind, though he has now pierced the clouds and this is the only noise. Only the stony path below him can read his expression – the energy required to look towards the goal is a waste of the energy needed to get there. His eyes are shut now, and all he has is faith. But faith is only self-belief. No one is guiding him, no one is aiding him, no one will save him: he will die here. The mountain will be his resting place, that is for certain. The only contingency is whether he tastes the truth and knows what all men seek before he passes away, or if he is to become one of many that have tried and failed. Not many make it this far, but his faith is strong: most begin their journey to the top of the mountain begrudgingly, and proportionately do not come close: he passed many skeletons on the way. He cannot see any here. He is now at the top. He is a short distance away from that pool: all he has to do is grind forward and fall headlong into it; perhaps it is like a volcano, or a dream, or like a vapour: the multiplicity of colours alone hints at something no man has ever known before. But his pace has slowed nearly to the point of stopping. Still, however, he continues: he reflects on all of his life previous, and whilst some moments are so vivid as to make his blood boil and to allow him to pick up his speed, he is overcome by the sheer amount of time that he has spent, and cannot remember: where did it all go? Too late for that now: he is so close. He tilts his head up: it is there, waiting. One final propulsion, one last rake against the stones with his body and he will be there. But his body has given up: it cannot take any more; not in life. It is time to make the ultimate sacrifice. He pauses briefly – a lifetime, and an instant – and for the first time during the ascent, lets out a sound. What word he says, I do not know: I have never heard it before. Simultaneously, with both hands he pushes himself off the ground and forward: he plunges deep into the pool. As he sinks in the concentrated soup of dreams, he asphyxiates. No man can survive what is inside there: it is not for the living. Within seconds he has perished, and all his gone: the identity dissolves along with the material. His present fades into the past. But why could he not endure that plunge, if he made it there? How can this be justified, acceptable, possible? All that pain for what: death? Why would the man choose to enter on to that journey if the climax was really an anti-climax? Who would begin such fatal endeavours?

The answer, dear reader, is all of us: that mountain is called life.

But do not despair: whilst some may wish that they had never begun the ascent, and dread the moment where they are forced to quit, answer me this: was that man’s final moments, where he believed he was to discover the untapped secrets of humanity (of the brain, of God, of love, of language, of nature, of the universe, of science, of art, etc.), not pure ecstasy? And did he not often have a hardy smile on his face, pleased with his progress, looking forward to the future? Did he not enjoy his purpose: to ascend? Did the wounds not spur him on? Every time he stumbled, did he not lick his lips at the prospect of becoming stronger and steeling himself, so that he would not fall next time? Though he knew not what was at the top of the mountain, did he not both push forward with ceaseless intensity, still finding time to linger at the sublime views along the way?

Whilst he spoke no words until that final moment, I believe we can say this, with certainty: though the man never tasted the truth in its purest form – and undoubtedly felt those blows he suffered in ascension – if he had the chance, he would do it all over again.

Mortality is both the most terrifying prospect and the one universal truth that all religions, all men, all thinkers, accept: we will be torn from this life eventually, whether at the bottom, or the top.

So we might as well make the most of the climb.

 

 

A Short Story,
Published 22 January 2012

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If you wish to discuss my work, or its themes

While I no longer stand by the work itself, the themes remain relevant: the meaning of life, finding purpose, exitalism, philosophical depression, nihilism, and the eessential questions of existence.

I was, and remain, open to discussion and to advice.

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