the ascent

I was home alone, staring at my ceiling, and as the night ceased to be dark and the sun started to light the sky outside my window, I realised that this life of mine is clouded with a grounding sadness. It is true, indeed, that the tree that would grow to heaven must send its roots to hell.

I now understand why I love being alone in the mountains. Mountains are indifferent, unforgiving, merciless — but also welcoming and purifying. In old times, people who sought enlightenment meditated in the mountains. The space. The silence. Amidst the cold. The way to the summit is paved with pain and sweat, but that's also how I know how badly I want to see the view from up there.

Behind their formidable look, mountains gift me solitude. Even when I was passing through paths that condemned any mistake, I could still feel my feet being guided by invisible cosmic forces. And so, with their guidance, I always stride forward even when I fail to give my best.

I know how it feels to stand alone on the peak of a mountain while the sky roars with rain and thunder, my hair softly caressed by the wind and my hand held by the freezing air. Even while knowing that lightning could strike me at any moment, I still chose to stay beneath the cross, for the view and the sound of the raging heavens brought me comfort and peace. The contrast between the loud, never-ending loneliness and the stillness of my soul — that's when I felt most alive.