Losing the Climb

Much of my time is spent waiting for the sun to emerge, to nudge my body into action, into productivity. The in-between is spent studying hands, complex like Japanese origami. Each line, each fold has a story. I used to fear that I would lose myself if I scratched my hands, so I slipped my hands into a pair of white gloves and stuck them in a freezer, coming out only to soak in the light of day.

Now I slip my hands into a skin of chalk, and as I glide down into the rock hole, my skin prickles at the cold. My body falls naturally into contorted shapes; my trust in self doesn’t seem to echo through the people waiting to catch my fall. Slow and static, I carry on. Regard the present as a companion–climb with patience and precision; present shifts to backdrop only when nostalgia edges in.

We reach Lost City. Halfway up my rock, hands go numb. The primal need to climb takes over.

What kind of precision can you expect your body to facilitate in an incoherent state? Climbing–inherently dangerous? Body, mind doesn’t care. I can’t complain that I didn’t make it. Close by, there are people watching, fingers fumbling with their pot kits. Disconnected, we exist on the same broken wavelengths. It’s simple: discard the world around you. Then replace.

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