The summit forever eludes me as edema sets in.
Oft this summit we sought together, climbers, brothers of the mission. The Lahotse would loom large and enticing and we'd break another fresh trail to it. We knew the summit lay at the top of the north face where fairies rein and Mellory's wings flip a naked song. Where Rand celebrates her nudity, shamelessly facing the summit. Sisyphus does not belong, for his is to push the stone up the summit, forever missing it...Even Rand is forbidden and Mellory is dead in celebration, having caught a glimpse of it.
Our climb was slow, deluding at times and crushing at others. The icefalls weren't even acknowledged and Cwm was another delusion. Lhotse teased us many a times and we kept ignoring it. We flew past the summit many a times like angels in old renaissance paintings. The surreal was more real than anything that we experienced..quills of fate and ablution in dirty ash trays as well...The summit still is, we gave up the mission....Lhatse smiles in morning light as Gogh remains frozen at the summit....
So the story starts.."Once upon a time there was a group of climbers...."