Climbing

I have been climbing a mountain. Not one of your old-worldpiles of rock, either, your seasonally-appropriate Croagh Patrick, your Appalachians. No, this is a big, pointy fucker, new and still harsh, rough and dangerous.

It starts out broad at the base, as mountains do. As you come up from the plains, you can hardly tell the difference as you get going. It starts as little hills, things you climb every day without noticing. I can't. I shouldn't. Oh, it's fine. It takes a long time to get past the foothills and onto the mountain itself. Whatever made me think I was worth... I don't deserve... I never have and I never will... It's a hard climb, but it's worth it. There's a sense of accomplishment, getting over each little ledge.

And then, sometimes, there's the plateaus. They're the worst part. Wide, flat and safe; a cosy little cave with a fire, and the promise of no more climbing. I'm a good person, really. I'm fine just the way I am. But I'm not racist. Everybody else does it, too. By the gods, that's a nice place to lay down and rest. Sometimes you have to. And sometimes you have to creep by on the edges, clinging to the sheer cliff face, still moving upwards with your eyes fixed on the ledge like you can absorb some of that comfort while not being taken in by it. Sometimes, that works.

I don't know what's at the top of the mountain. I don't know if there is a top. I don't know if anyone knows. But climbing is better than resting, even if sometimes it's a very close call.