across the crevices

the wind on this himalyan plain has lacerated me at every step of this journey
to the holy place. i pause knee deep in powerdered snow to tighten my buckle–
which has started to languish 500 yards before. in front of me wizzards of
snow–impenetrable whiteness in shear numerosity.

where am i? how far to the holy place?

resolute on not dying in some obscure plateua–where my loved ones will never
recover me, i decide to press forward, though i know not where forward leads.
we fool ourselves, don’t we, and say that forward is always the correct way.
and if we pause to consider for a moment, incessant time urges us to forward
motion.

my determination made, i stand up and step, and suddenly am taken down into
a deep crevice. down down i fall into the dark iciness–the walls of the
crivace lacerating the palms of my hands and the tenders of my cheek.
i fall fall to my death in the desolate places of the himalayan plain.

body broken, i lay in repose the last moments of my life. how did i end up
here? my last exhalations wrought with such pain–the smoke of funeral pyres
rising in escape–go forth oh breath; go up o soul; vacate this cruel earth
and cross into that far holy place where this body can not go.

yes yes, the numbness of cold death opens to vistas of first truths.

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~ by lentaing on February 21, 2011.