Image by Luke Laeser
Will you tell me, oh climber, of ascents among the nations? Of your catharsis revolution enacted upon the soul? Will you send a sign of greatness, and hang it high upon a pole? Can you climb into your being and fill that longing with dirt and dust and chalk? Will your patience lead to heights of immeasurable countenance and lead the immigrants home? Tell me oh climber what you aspire yourself to be.
Tell me oh sleeper of your dreams. Whisper your thoughts and your thoughts‚ thoughts into my gentle ear and subtly describe your experience with devout failure. Your beauty lives between four walls trapped and chained to dreams, and to the wind.
Oh climber, bring to me stones from your walk and let me examine your terror with mine eye; or better yet, leave them with their arguments and desires of uniformitarianism. We shall brew a pot of tea and breath and spew and sputter our disdain for our lack of omnipotence while we excuse our climbing for the search of such, knowing confidently and silently our desperate clinging and clanging chases that being called life.
Oh sleeper, diminish your tears and drool and flee this fleece bed with wool and feathers and welcome the cold with laughter. For cold only knows that sound of joy and opposition. And cold is where life dwells, laughing wildly on a cliff.