There once was a solitary traveller, traipsing merrily up through a narrow, misty crag. Had this been his first time here, perhaps his face would not have held a look of such comfort, and perhaps he would not have acted so foolhardy; kicking rocks to the side of the road and grinning happily to himself like a young boy returning, after a long and drawn-out spell, to his distant lover. The landscape around him was cold and unfriendly, and the air around him was cold, thin; ever increasing difficult to breathe in and keep hold of.
He was nearing the final destination of his annual pilgrimage, and he could feel the cracked edges of the leather-clad feet beginning to burn. He ignored the ache, the slight tremble of his calf, and the tired wobble his entire leg gave as his foot came down on a single spare, rebellious pebble, threatening to pull him downwards to meet the jagged and uneven ground. Instead he focused on the winding pathway; eyes following his due course as he fought his way upward into the biting cold of the hilltop.
He'd stopped once; many years ago, when he had been much younger, and hadn't been half as foolish as he was in his old age. Half way up-for the journey down was far less difficult-he gave into the nagging tiredness that was weighing down his limbs, and rested for a little while against a large rock facing the cliff-face. He drank some water, and rested his tired feet, thinking it was the logical thing to do. But as he gazed upwards, the entire weight of the mountain, and what he knew lay on top, seemed to bear down upon him like a crashing wave attacking a marooned sailor at sea, and the idea of continuing to battle gravity, and climb to the top, filled him with a sickly dread. Frustratingly unstoppable, it bored down into him, and drove him to weary tears.
That year, he did not make it to the top, and was missed terribly.
He had learned his lesson since then. His body was much older; his long hair, which fluttered against his ears with each pleasant, cool gust of wind, had grown silver; the hands which clutched at passing rocks for support were wrinkled, with short, fumbling fingers which somehow managed to grip the natural hand-holds and hoist him further upwards. And he had grown foolish. His mind no longer strayed to the bottle of water hanging at his belt, or the small package of food in his pack; half of which he would be splitting when he reached the top. Survival was no longer the pinnacle of his intentions, for his life was far too overdrawn, and far too unimportant to be of much more interest to him. Instead, he forgot about his empty belly, and beached himself on the shores of his mind, which prospered under the