The Mountain & The Mole

I close myself to the maddening impulses, the incessant ringing and prattle, the babbles and the jibber jabber, mindless writhing and mindful writing, I close myself to the vocalisations the proclamations the idle thoughts and the uneven draws.

I recede from the cacophony and rage, the kaleidoscopic hate, the multicolour pages of self-published spew, from the cascading repetition and the cyclical chronic condition, from the rodent headed instinctual behaviour, from the churning rat wheel hell-hole cityscape, from the friends’ page, from the headlines and the horror shop, from detailed instructions and internal ruptures, and from all the walking dead head drop downer dislocated disappointments and dredges.

I fade from the final scene, from the credits and from the lights. I sink beneath the warming waves on an unlit November night. I retreat from the bullshitters and the dealers and the lies. I burrow and I squirm, blind bloodless little worm, into the loam and leaf litter and rotten timbers, beneath the dark and under the world.

I approach the mountain of trepidation, I crawl toward the pile of great ambition, I seek the trails used by jungle snails, I carve a path and cover my tracks as I go deeper and lower with my heart rhythm slowing, spirals into the core and approaching the wall.

I approach a door, hidden and small, unknown and renown, spoken of by the many but passed through by  a few, I approach with lead in my limbs and dragging my tail, I approach with hands full of nails and heart laden with lies.

I touch the door. Timber aged to iron protesting with ire and resisting while I gather moments and memory and madness and discarding it all, I lean and I push and I struggle in mud and murk and finally I gain the slightest, the smallest slice of light, a blinding glimpse of gleaming eluding me on the farther side.

I open the door.

I open the door and stumble, fall and collapse into the brightness, the light falling from the mountain before me. I open the door and hear the howls and the echoes of mundane terrors from behind me, I open the door and feel the pull of phantom limbs and grasping gasping smoke, nothing’s very grip upon my sorry self, oblivion’s calling and icy drawing as the past and the present and time itself defies me.

I open the door and step onto stars, onto a highway of broken lights, with each movement sparks fly white and ephemeral around me, with each breath the light infuses me, with each step the dazzling infinity blinds me, with each beat the music compels me.

I open the door and there is nothing. There is everything. There is a room, a field, a plain, a world, and at the end of that expanse, stands the mountain, mist-wreathed and sighing, forever dying but frozen in the moments between thoughts.

I reach for the the mountain, I step across the room, I tread into the field, I stumble across the plain, the world, the highway of shattering stars and the headlights of passing cars.

I beseech the mountain, I shout and I cry and at the last I whisper, I use every name I can remember for anyone who walked the earth I left behind.

I move myself, step beyond step and further.

I move my heart, great lumpen blackened burnt and worm holed mound of unfeeling flesh.

I move my body, frail fragile pale eyeless, tenuous and failing, even as it stoops and stales and rots.

I move my thoughts, revulsion tingling and disgust wriggling.

And before I can recall exhaustion or reprieve, before I can perceive whether the distance is before or behind me, I reach the lowest of slopes, the foot of the hills, the first rock on the way to the top.

I climb, slow at first, rambling and rolling steps, each stride confidently drawing the summit closer to me. Stones shift beneath my tread, shuffling shale shards and rolling basalt dust, and I find myself lulled by the bass rhythm of each step punctuated with the percussive rattle of shifting pebbles.

I climb, feeling my heart expand with each breath, drinking pristine liquid crystal air, confidence swelling as I ascend. I climb, I feel taller with each step putting more earth beneath me, each step raising my head higher, each step brings the clouds closer.

I climb as the trail turns to loose stone and flows like a river, I climb as my limbs start to burn, I climb as my head starts to swim, I climb as the rhythm continues. I climb as the world falls away. I climb as my vision blurs with sweat and dirt. I climb as the air thins and becomes sharp as a blade whetted on the blackened stones that surround me, confront me and confound me. I climb as that very blade starts to saw across my chest, piercing my lungs, my heart, and then my head. I climb as the black rock blurs and crumbles, as each step sinks into a cascade of slag, as each step fills my boots with rock and weighs ever down. I climb as the burning in my legs turns cold, stiff and heavy. I climb as the mountain soars, grows, reaches ever further before, around and above me.

I climb even as the trail wears away, I climb as the clouds descend and hide the way before me, I climb even as I sink into the soil, I climb even as I fall forward, I climb on fours, on hands, knees and joints. I climb as my hands rub raw, I climb and I feel the flint blade rocks, pain light a lightening rod, I climb I climb I climb.

Somewhere I can go no further, at some point, at some time. I know nothing as the clouds surround me and the rock covers me, as the mountain pulls me into her embrace.

I am on a plateau, a field of pliant green grass stretching unto the edge of the world. A breeze stirs the flax like an invisible hand and from far off I hear the cry of a hunting hawk, her gaze sweeping across the plain, restless yet lazily roaming.

 I am in a valley, listening to the chuckling babble of a white water stream winding around me, curling over stones smooth with years of wash and flowing forever towards a distant river, plunging over fallen rock and hidden creeks unknown and never visited.

I am in a desert, bright sunlight warming my blood and refracting from quartz specks among the rolling sands.

I am under the ocean, cooled by deep currents and momentous silence.

I am at home, curled into a corner like a cowering door-mouse, miniscule and secure, safe and overlooked, happily ignored and ignorant.

I am nowhere, dark and confined, a coffin coddled black box buried in snow and ice.

Light returns gradually, grain by grain and moment by moment as a sensation as gentle as a wave on a warm beach overcomes me. I wake softly, slowly and I feel only a slight sinking as feeling returns, one finger after another, one limb at a time. I blink, surrounded by white and quiet.

I am on the mountain once again, I am everywhere and I am nowhere at all. Other peaks spread out like broken granite teeth below me, sky above a clear bolt of unrelenting azure.

I am at the peak of the earth, the pinnacle of the world, the column of heaven, at the end of the world.



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