A violent wind rips around the crag, tumbling pebbles and dust into the hair whipping his face. His fingers; nails full of the dried blood and dirt from a seemingly endless trek, fumble to continue finding purchase. He searches the howling of the weather for patterns. Not to lessen or ease the labour of continued ascent, but, for the longing of melody. How long had it been since he last had spare breath to hum a favourite tune, or even encountered the mornings cacophonous melody of wild birds?
Much too long.
The ages spent along this escarpment have been less than kind. Neither had his choices lent less to such circumstance. Never was the party grandiose, but, the years had shed the company he once joyed in. Stripped the comfort of familiarity, of the particulars and machinations that would ease the travel. Or, perhaps he had cast them off. After all, it's the undertaking of each their own to partake.
Sighing; synchronized with the breeze, to seem communal, he clambers on.
And in that instant, clinches with what might he can still muster to the cliff side. He stares blankly into the mineral face - The only he can recall, now, sharing in every tribulation. Just as the point of staring into the abyss is nil, never had there been a point to looking ahead to the unending rise. Yet, there wasn't longer a berth to grasp. His hand floundered in only open air. Blinking away equal parts particulate and lachryma, he writhes the way atop his quarry.
Stumbling along the only visible artery between standing promontories, he finds himself led to a grove. Small. Pitiful. Failing.
In a complete stillness, he finds no serenity. Mayhaps just the opposite. Knowing well that each of the few trees bears fruit still, he can only reach those low-hanging. And scrape the dregs from the ground beneath. All of him has been expended reaching even this pinnacle. And with neither friend nor implement still near, it's his lot. He gathers what he may. This one, a fading face. Another, a weak brushstroke. A word otherwise forgotten. A fabric snippet.
He settles upon a loamy mound, back to a gnarled trunk. With hands awash in the scuzz of what remains, he stares longingly first at the ripest of drupe topping each of the scant perennials.. Glimpsing, now and again, the more substantial elements of what he yenned. And, with greatest sorrows, the memories of those he'd lost or abandoned along the way. His ardent gaze upon each of those begins to falter, eyes shifting beyond his minute coppice to the vast pillars rising in the distance... To the familiar forms flickering in his vision, mounting ever greater heights.
Not for the plaintive nature of his reaching this diminutive plateau. And not even for the meager detritus he's left for himself. But, for his not being present for those same figures, he weeps.
I scribbled this out in a haze a few weeks back. It was to be a lazy weekend, for once, and I'd been looking forward to a number of the projects I've habitually surrounded myself with. I don't dream often, or at least recollect them upon waking... But, this had stuck with me.
I used to dedicate hours, daily, to writing and sketching. I was regularly found after work at the coffeehouse, even hours after they closed still at it, because I knew if I didn't finish the piece then, I wouldn't. Then, life happened and I set most of my more artistic aspirations aside - Sold off many of my instruments, put away the pencils and chalks. Closed and locked the last of my noteb0ooks. Here I was, now - almost 10 years later - trying my hand again. And a lot of the time, it seemed futile. I looked around my crafting room with unease at everything half finished. Or, even at my house, everything askew and mid-progress.
I've slowly been rededicating myself. Trying to fulfill those Baby Steps that Dr. Leo Marvin and Bob Wiley taught me all about. While I'm still all over the place as far as what I have going - More things are being focused on and finished before the next one starts. And while I may not be overly impressed with the finished product [And well aware of the "You're your own worst critic.."], I think I'm more content in my lot than I may have thought. Just because I'm not costuming for Hollywood or a featured SDCC Cosplayer doesn't mean it's bad. My writings not being published make them no more prosaic. And the paintings on my walls hang just as well as those in galleries.
As long as I keep telling myself this, at least.