Where are you? Bottom of a mountain? Half-way up? Probably don't need a boost or a climbing partner. What's so grand about a very large rock?
I've been there. It's pretty neat. You can see the stars through daytime blue. You can see things in colors and sizes not even the best climbers have seen yet. What's the big thing? Ice freezes your wrists and thighs, it's hard to talk to each other through the wool covering your mouth, a lot of people have died up here. Well, let me tell you... I've climbed a lot in a lot of different countries, but from this mountain, I found the sun. The sun is not round, it is a war, orange fire, flares of white yellow.
That's it, actually. Didn't really find anything else here. Chicken soup. An interesting rock. A flag bent over in a drift. But the sun at altitude bears you backwards, breathless. If from this high mountain, you could see the sun as it is, alive, piercing, shuddering with temperature, what's the mountain say? What if we could ambulate onto the high mists up into space, where your achievements are mere downside, where north (and didn't we already know this?) doesn't exist. No until you have rocked into the cool, heavy arms of the universe, can you ever find exactly how alone you are, and that you are the most exquisite part of every being in every world.
No promises. It's a messy, dangerous business. But if you choose to write, if you go for it 1800%, I think you might find an explosion or two. You might find, awkward and imperfect, at your extreme moment, yourself. And everybody else.


Jane M.

Prose is a walk; poetry is dance.

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