Sometimes it seems that the time flows according to the clock, but actually all those figures and clock hands do not have anything in common with the time. The time flows as it wishes. Now you are climbing the mountain, doing nothing but looking at the legs of your teammate going ahead, turn back and see a charming chain of small lanterns running below, and your thoughts are focused on one thing — the time is crawling eternally. And suddenly it appears that you are on your way back, going on a bus, and a whole fortnight appears to have passed.
I went to the mountains out of curiosity. But I found far more.
How many a time did I want to burst into tears because of tiredness, weakness and anger with myself, and my carelessness, — why damn it so hard for me, why I am dragging myself at the back, why I am either hot or cold, when it all will come to an end, and who on earth invented climbing the mountains.
How many a time did I want to stop and to stop the time so that the fluffy picturesque cloud would keep hanging above the mountain, and the wind would keep blowing about the prayer flags noisily, and this black dog would keep making its way nearby.
Heaps of thoughts and emotions, realization of your weakness and the limits of your abilities, humility and acceptance, pride and enjoyment, all these delights and sorrows of the nine-day track, agitation and admiration at the austerity of the mountains striking you with their power and beauty, comprehension and your inner work, which overtake you afterwards, — it’s surprising experience of the way to yourself, not at all ideal but real, which I want to go through again.
