If you pressed me, I'd confess to having seen light above, distant and so fleetingly, yet considering my condition, it is difficult to ascertain its existence. All the senses are as unreceptive as stone, dulled by this isolating experience. Hour after hour I cling to insubstantial handholds in this blinding darkness. In this situation is difficult to certain of anything. I can't calculate how long I've clung to these cracks in the rock. If it seems like an eternity, perhaps this is the effect of the pervasive blackness, though if an eternity it has not been, I suspect nearly a lifetime has passed. In this void, the other senses are similarly silenced, nothing pungent or pleasant, no noise except exhalation, generated by the labor of climbing a precarious traverse. Beneath my fingers rests an impervious wall, from which no fragment has ever separated, not even against the wrath of beating hand. No sight, no sound, no smell, no taste, only touch. This cursed senseless infliction upon the nerves, as painful as fingernails torn from their sockets.
Internally a prompt: “How can a
situation be described as tenuous, with no ability to perceive? For,
if it is too dark for the eye to receive, how can the likelihood of a
fall be judged?”
But I know I clutch this rough barrier,
that I have labored over a portion of its length. Let someone wrench
their poor bones across this pitted obstacle in ascent, (while never
achieving the summit) and ask them whether there was no sense of up's
inverse. Or let this skeptic substitute himself in my place, and
reject despair while dangling by a finger as he searches for a saving
grace. Or, if this doubter trusts in the existence of a surface on
which to rest his feet, let him recline into the space to uphold him.
Of my situation I have no doubt, and
those who have failed to examine and recognize their position, will
never discern their danger until an apprehension awakens their soul.
Reassess, reexamine repeatedly.
Today, and I use the term only as a
nostalgic link to my past life (if I've lived one), my curious,
terrifying existence, was disturbed by unforeseen occurrence.
Customarily clutching the rock, a sensation passed pleasantly along
the skin of my right hand. I believe I smiled at the touch (though
no eye recorded the event), but then nearly fell, as another hand
grasped mine and a voice said, “How long have you been hanging?
Come with me, for I offer you unending respite.”
This stranger would have dislodged my
insecure status if I'd hesitated, but though his proposal spoke of
rewards beyond possibility, I accepted it immediately, for it must be
superior to mine. With my right hand, curled into a fist and
clasped in the stranger's left, I was led to an opening in the rock
face. With an effort I was soon crouched, on hands and knees, in a
rough tunnel.
“Crawl forward, we have a bit of
distance to travel,” the voice from ahead said, and we began.
Temporarily released from my desperate dedication to the wall, relief
stabbed at the core of my being, but after we'd traveled a hundred
yards I began to reexamine this new position. After only this short
distance, a intense pain inflicted itself on my senses. It extended
upward from where my skin met the jagged surface, as if my shins were
being drawn over serrated metal. The floor became slippery, and
though no source of illumination existed to offer any proof, I knew I
was crawling through a mixture of blood, mine and my companion's.
Yet, even this seemed a respite from
the wall, and I persevered through this horror. Eventually, we
entered into a small enclosure, where it was at least possible to sit
and stretch out. Still, there was neither light, nor anything to
recline upon except for the same pitted surface. Yet I could hear
the ruffle of cloth, and assumed my guide had laid himself out upon
the ground. I did as well, sticky hands feeling for the most
comfortable spot to rest.
I had barely decided on the least
disagreeable spot, when I heard his voice.
“I've heard there is no bottom nor
peak, just a circular tunnel (like a snake eating its tail or a
perverse Dharma wheel), where no matter how much one climbs end over
end, hauling body, bones, and blood upward, one only retraces their
climb endlessly. A peculiar, pointless exercise in self-inflicted
suffering. Instead, I rest my soul, loafing, not totally at ease mind
you, but without the tension, the confusion, the disregard for my own
well being the climb fosters in oneself.”
“There is no peak? If one continues
to climb they’ll discover only an everlasting road, which at some
point, unconsciously they’ll repeat?” I replied, assuming the
speech was for me.
“Your question is as meaningless as
what is the sum of three rabbits and five suns. It contains no
truth. With the limited information available to absorb through your
senses, reason can approach no valid and true conclusion. Let me
tell you of an encounter. I once spoke to a man who had, unlike you,
cast himself into the space. The first time I spoke to him, he said
it was an act of faith. The second time he claimed an abundance of
apathy. The third, a desire to descend. I haven't seen him since.”
“An endless cycle...”
“Not necessarily, without an observer
there is nothing to be certain of, no one can observe when all the
senses are stopped or deceived.”
“It seems to me,” I said, “climbing
might be the only source of well being.”
“Potentially, potentially,” he
said, “but it seems just as likely that any action leads to well
being. But I have here, an unlimited choice of possibilities, where
you have only two, climb or fall.
“I can, and have, bivouaced.”
“You need to do what I have.”
“I need to keep climbing.”
“It's the acceptance of one's
ignorance about what one can't possibly begin to comprehend. It's
denying that one could ever acquire the knowledge necessary for
judgment. Stay here with me, and let time run its weary course.”
“Stay, go, how can it even matter to
you?”
He tried to answer, spoke many words,
composed a few paragraphs with intricate sentences, but in the end it
all sounded like dusty nothings to my ears. I left then, on a trail
more comfortable because of its lubricant.
Here I cling again to an uncaring,
uncompromising rock. Climbing when I am able, immobile when I am
not. I still think of what he said, but the possibility of light
above lifts me upward.
And I wonder, how can I reach the light
to judge whether it is real or only a fire flickering in a cave?
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