the canvas tent smells like rain and dust, a mix of promise and regret that’s been chasing me since i left that last place, i guess it was never about the view from the top, it was about the shape of the wanting, the way the air feels in my lungs when i know there's nothing left to prove, just… the granite. it's always been the granite. the cold seep that climbs from my fingers up my arms reminds me what's real, what's mine and that's not the summit, not the photo, it's the grip. the way the mountain holds back and lets you choose to keep going, or not and there's no judgment either way, just… gravity and the echo of your own heartbeat in your ears and that's the only company you need, or maybe it’s the only company that will have you.