Underneath callused hands, soiled with magnesium powder, the rock becomes warm and soft. Chin up high, aiming at the target.
Clinging to the rock, feeling its pulsating presence underneath the finger, sensing the grooves adhering to the rubbery soles in the tips of the feet, holding its solid and corrugated skin tight, in a caressing effort that is nothing but.
The climber has a focused mind, taken by a single thought: to go up.
Reward awaits after the last grip. An intangible, abstract prize, but as real as the bolstering rock. It is imperative to push forward, and not to hesitate or doubt or fear.
If, however, fear is overpowering, if the rock escapes the grip, the body that falls is in fact a liberated mind. There is no fear, no defeat, nor even victory. In the hollow of the fall, wings are born, much like the winged creatures that observe those strange humans, through recesses of shadow and light, granite and nettle, lichen and bromeliads, in search for eternal ascension.