The rocky, desert mountain looked down on me unforgivingly. Dust hung thick in the dry, desert air. Not even sunshine could reach the leeward ground I stood on. It felt almost hallowed. The landscape was desolate. The bristled, brown plants clung to jagged edges. There was no path. Something beckoned me to the top.
In the beginning, the climb was a stroll. Soon it grew steep. I used my hands to pull myself up. Rocks pulled loose under my fingers and fell sharply and endlessly down below. I didn't look how far down because I had to keep climbing.
Finally, the summit appeared. It was like a sandstone wall, standing as a fortress guarding the other side. There was no foothold. I jumped until my hand found the peaks. Hanging there, I had to pull myself up--not know what was on the other side. I wasn't exhausted, but I was very afraid. I swung over and and landed almost on my back. I looked at my scraped hands and knees. I wondered how I would go on, but when I looked up there was a gentler slope.
The pink dusk fell over the whole land. It was beautiful, but I knew that meant darkness was coming. I couldn't see much, but I followed my feet. I stumbled down the mountain.
Then, it was finished. As surely as I heard the call to the top, I felt the end at the bottom.
I dreamed this all two nights ago, but it is my subconscious reminding me that we are at the halfway point in this year. Why do people climb mountains like that?