Alone on the Mountain

The desolate perfection of solitude. The shiver of recognition that there is only one being on the mountain, and that’s you. The pine trees watch, the boulders brood, but there is no one there. The splendour of being alone, crushed to fragments by the chirping of crickets, pierced by the song of a mountain thrush. The sea of solitude, a sea of sounds. With no noise at night, sounds rush you like a wave, a pounding surf inside your head. But, then, in the ozone tonic morning, the sky fills you with blue happiness, emotions so high you are born again on the mountain, and loneliness seems the greatest joy a man could wish for. Praise be to God I’m alone. Though the mountain air throws its voice from time to time. “There’s a whole world out there waiting for you — what are you waiting for? The world doesn’t care whether you're here or not.” I know, I think. I am free, so free I could dissolve into thin air right now and fly through that hill, through the planet for that matter. Find myself on Mars and know what loneliness is all about. Earthly loneliness is for cowards. On earth there’s an outside chance a human will turn up. On Mars, loneliness meets a new friend — desperation. The desperate need to remain whole, to not break up and boil in the Martian atmosphere. To not depressurise and explode. Lots of long walks required on Mars I’d say. Circumnavigation would do it. Is there loneliness greater than that? I think there is, but I’m afraid to tell you. But there is a tremendous rhythm to be found in silence. It might take days to get it. You might suffer with sound death in an echo chamber for a while. Tinnitus might strafe your skull case for what seem like endless nights. But one day you’ll find yourself listening to a distant, low base rhythm that starts from the balls of your feet, the back of your skull — you don’t know which — but it’s so strong, so virile and strident you see the whole forest take up arms and shake its fists. And you shake your fists too, and dance like a bear in a dry riverbed — wolfsbane shooting off your claws like bullet tracers, spraying colours all over the pine tree valley. The music in silence. It’s dripping from the trees, drifting in mountain mist.