Mountain

He’d heard of a man living atop a mountain in the East who knew many things. This gave him hope. Three years previous he’d have varicose thoughts, midnight terrors. Ideas would erupt in Fibonaccian misery throughout his mind; meaninglessness and potential existential meltdown. He left his wife (someone) and his little world (somewhere) and discovered bicycles. He started to shine, he only ate parsley. Sparsely. The ground became a friend and the shoes came from all over to try him on. Needless to say he soon became something of a vessel. All things to all men, he cried by the road side for salvation. This brought him into the arms of the Arabs. Who were so much kinder back then. They showed him when to pray and who to. Religion wasn’t for him, or rather, he couldn’t respect something so helpless. One day inside your radio he heard of a man living atop a mountain. Yes. The very same. He climbed that mountain last Tuesday, after a quick fry at Pesci’s and a bowl of easygro plantain:

Oh wise one of the East! great man amongst men, soul mate of the winds and satellite of the angels, stay your hand from your gluten covered treats, your box-car races and your tofu coloured women a while and answer me this. I have journeyed far to catch your candy-coloured feet, now listen.

The old man put down his effects and tossed the lucky ones coins. It was pay-what-you-can Tuesday. He arched an ear towards our boy…

I have journeyed for years through existential wilderness, through the dark caverns of this world in search of light and meaning, in search of a thing called love, in search of a world above. I have endeavored far and wide to procure something tangible to believe in, something constant and real to dedicate my life’s energies towards. At every crossroad I have questioned and considered, I have asked natives for directions. But I still, haven’t found, the thing I am looking for. I have been climbing my whole life, oh great one, and now I climb this mountain. The road was long, I have lost my companions, one by one, my head feels dizzy, and I no longer maintain communion with my base body functions. But I’m still standing, I prevail. Now I ask you, tell me something. Tell me something that will give me meaning. Tell me something that will make my life worth living, tell me something that will give my journey purpose and ease my future.

The old man, deeply turned-off by the phrase existential wilderness, had none-the-less patiently waited for the man to stop making noises. He then poised, broke a Kit-Kat in half and hazarded;

It’s easier on the way down.