The Mountain
There is no suffering, and yet suffering is all there is. It is like waking from the longest dream—a dream I was never truly dreaming. I am myself, yet not myself. I am everything, and nothing. Childhood flickers through me: joy and freedom, misery and shackles—alive and gone all at once.
Long ago, I began walking up the mountain. The way was uncertain. So many paths stretched before me—none right, none wrong. Some led to sorrow too heavy to bear, and I turned back. Yet always I moved onward. Five miles up, four miles back. Valleys and summits, over and over.
One day I came to a river, raging and turbulent. I chose to cross, though it nearly drowned me. At last I grasped a rock, hauled myself ashore, weary and desolate, yet I carried on. Closer to the top, the paths grew clearer. Until finally, I knew: I had found the way.
It was steep and treacherous, but through the mist, glimpses of light revealed the direction. At last, I reached the summit. I turned around—the fog had lifted—but no path remained. I turned the other way, and still there was nothing.
What remained was peace. What remained was joy. Together they became wholeness, embraced for the first time. I had come home—only to realize I had never left.
Nic Killer
