"Great things happen when man and mountain meet" -William Blake

That day started as innocuously as any other. The damned rooster was screeching in revelry of the new sun and the man was too tired to shut it up. Begrudgingly he left his bed to prepare himself for the hours that lay ahead of him. The man was of a slight build, with a head as barren as the fields he tried in vain to cultivate. His face housed a multitude of wrinkles, which branched out from his weary eyes. With those eyes he scanned his meager hovel he called a home. For too long had he been eking out a life of discomfort in this place, a place too far away from others for the reprieve of human contact, but too close to be isolated from the outside world. This placement which caused him so much grief, also allowed him to learn of that which would give his life meaning. “Forget this place”, the man muttered. “I’ll leave now and if all goes well I’ll reach that plateau in no time” he explained to no one in particular. With that he donned his most comfortable pair of shoes and walked hastily out the door and into the desert’s warm embrace.

He had always wondered how far away the mountain could be, but he had always been too indecisive to find out. In fact, you could say that this man had always been decisively indecisive. Now that he had left the confines of his shack, he was not a man, but a traveler. This thought warmed his heart, because a traveler has a destination, and that destination is anywhere but Here. “Here”, he scoffed. “Here is waste. Here is pain.” he said with contempt. He had enough of Here and that is why he was walking through miles of dust and sand to get There. That far off summit housed something so beautiful that all who had seen it could scarcely describe it. The traveler gazed downward with only his doubts and the sound of his shuffling feet to keep him company. Turning back was out of the question, and so with the sun channeling all of its malice directly on his brow, he pressed on.

He walked for what seemed an eternity, through brush, and sand. “Just like home” the traveler muttered bitterly. But, that’s where he was wrong, it wasn’t home and that’s exactly why he was here. Slowly, as the traveler neared his destination, the mountain changed its form. What was once a small tower in the distance had become a monolith which thrust so high that it threatened to pierce the sky above. As he drank this impossible site in, the traveler was overcome; he had come this far only to be defeated. The defeated man, sat down and bowed his head, suddenly his thoughts shifted back to his home. His shack where a fine layer of dust blanketed all he owned, and the desert heat rolled in uninvited to keep him company. The idea of returning seemed so offensive that he decided to do something very uncharacteristic of himself; he decided to attempt something which his mind had declared impossible. With that, he picked himself up and righted his shirt, he was now inspired to continue.


The inspired man inspected the side of the mountain with the discerning eye of a man determined. He was possessed by a need to reach the summit, and revel in its whispered treasure. Even the inspired man could not know if his ascent was a result of fear of failure, or a true desire to accomplish his goal, but he ascended the mountain all the same. His progress was slow, irregular rock formations jutted out at improbable angles forcing him to plan out his movements well ahead of their time. After a short climb he reached a small landing. Branching off from the landing lay a narrow trail which snaked its way lazily up the mountain. As he walked ever upwards he was accompanied by his dear friend, the sun, glowing purple in all its rage. “Keep burning” the inspired man said, almost smiling, “the light keeps my path clear”. As he crept ever closer to the mountain’s peak, he realized something peculiar. While the desert was inhospitable, it still housed an assortment of creatures, poisonous and malicious, but living things nonetheless. In contrast, he had not heard a rustle of movement, the flapping of wings or the buzz of insects during his entire trek up the face of the mountain. At this point he almost missed the cacophonous exultations of his red-crowned neighbor, but not quite. “That damned rooster” he sighed, as he shook his head, “what good’s a rooster if I have no harvest to wake to?” he mused. At this point the inspired man sat down and contemplated just what it was he had left behind.


The contemplating man sat for a great time, so great in fact, that his legs began to protest. He begrudgingly obliged them and rose to his feet. As he rose, his mind followed. It raced between thoughts of his goal, and the possibility of failure. Unfortunately, the contemplating man couldn’t determine what failure would entail, as he didn’t even know what he sought. However, he was certain that turning back would do him no good. With this in mind he traveled upward towards the mountain’s peak.

A few more paces and the summit would be in reach. Each step sparked a new fire of joy which threatened to consume him. His hands trembled and his gait quickened as he neared the summit. Behind his eyelids fantastic scenes of victory played as he tried to guess what awaited him. Soon he would be sitting contentedly at the mountain’s ultimate height, awash in beauty men only dared to whisper about.

The mountaintop’s floor was a pale white which served to reflect and amplify the sun’s piercing rays. As his eyes adjusted to the overwhelming light, the hopeful man’s dreams seemed to crash down around him. Standing obstinate in the center of the mount’s summit was a rose. Atop the rose’s thorn laced stem, stood a lone flower, a brilliant red bloom. While its existence was remarkable, it did not inspire the broken man to fall to his knees in awe, nor did it inspire him to feel anything more than the sting of disappointment. Yet, he was still drawn to it. Slowly he reached out to gather its flower and draw it toward him so that he may inspect it. As his fingers gripped the bloom, he felt a sharp sting near his wrist.

The scorned man let out a sharp cry and released the rose’s crown. While nursing his injury and letting out a wave of invective, he noted a peculiar feature. The rose’s thorns were a dull green, laced with vibrant purples. Looking at his wrist he laughed as purple lines branched out from the site of offense and followed his veins, forming tendrils that seemed to envelop his entire body. Amazed, he sat down scarcely noting that night had begun to stake its claim over the desert valley. Slowly, the sated man laid his head to rest on the pallid summit floor as the dark of night embraced him. With eyes wide the content man stared, transfixed on the source of his pain and happiness, and grinned as his vision failed him.