In the darkness of the lounge the mountain climber told me of the moment he died.

He had lost his grip and fallen backwards into empty air. He fell to his death. But in a snap moment, the rope caught him, and held him up against the sky like two fingers holding a pebble above an ocean.

He gazed down at the swirling clouds beneith, and clung to the rope with every bit of strength he had.

He took a deep breath, and focused his sight on the cliff. Slowly, he began pulling himself back towards the rock, centimeter by centimeter, inch by inch.

The nylon was patient. It held strong. It waited.

When the mountain climber had reached the top of the mountain he arrived with a realization. Ultimately it wasn’t the rope that had saved him.
“It was my grip!” He exclaimed in triumph. At that he grinned, patted my shoulder, and went back to his friends at the other side of the bar.
And I sat in thought.

2

Several weeks later, I walked by a man asleep. He sat on the sidewalk, back against a wall with a sign cradled in his arms. Scratched in the dull cardboard was some common plea for help. Something about being homeless; maybe traveling.

But I caught a glimpse of something. Curled between his fingers was a string of plastic beads, and at the end, a white cross, dangling in the air. His fist clung tight to the beads. Even in sleep he wouldn’t let go.
For some reason I thought of the mountain climber.

When a man hangs in the air, it isn’t the strength of the rope that holds him, it’s his grip.

A fisherman does not catch fish. He has no control of fish – he has nothing to do with them.
He merely casts his line and waits. The fish do the rest.

Living is the same. You have no control of life – it has nothing to do with you.
As such, you can not get better at living.

You can only master the art of casting your line and waiting.

On the board the word “Energy” was circled.

“So you see, nothing can be created, or destroyed” The professor had gray hair and he pointed at the board with a piece of chalk, tapping it to make his point.

My classmates were chatting amongst themselves, and in my memory only I was paying attention. It seemed to be just me and his words in the room. While I was sucked up in the memory, I imagined what it would be like to be sitting in that very room on that very day, hearing the exact same words, but in the context of now, of the fire lapping at the flames, consuming everything.

I raised my hand, “If nothing is created or destroyed, then where exactly has all my stuff gone?”

Sure, plastic and wood might combust into smoke, but what about the other things? Where do memories go? Do they evaporate into the air and spread themselves along the surface of the world? Do they leak into our dreams when we sleep? Are they responsible for the ozone corroding?

If no energy is created or destroyed, then what is created when hope is snuffed out? When dreams are burnt?

I watched the flames collapse the roof in on its self, and it occurred to me no question should be answered in the same breath it’s asked.

He had to finish his masterpiece. A messy black mark across pure white cement, with the porous grains of rock breathing in the goo, sucking it up. Right then large fingers encircled his arms, and he was caught. 2 officers with blue caps dragging his torso back from the wall, back from the sidewalk, back to the police van, away from his half finished work, scrawled awkwardly, as if it knew it went unfinished. As if it knew what came next.

Noooo!!! he yelled to no one, outstretched arms dropping the spray can which clunked on the street and skittered across the asphalt, falling off into the infinity of a nearby gutter. the business owner grunted in amusement  Then he grinned.  He grinned proudly and broadly. And with a worn paintbrush and a half empty bucket of paint, he began painting over the black blemish on his wall, covering it with an equally out of place blemish of fresh paint. This was the victory he had been looking forward to for months. He closed his eyes and breathed in the paint smell, tuned the brush handle over in his fingers.  The vandal had been enemies, each day painting over each others work. But now the battle was over. His grin grew wider as he lathered the paint over every black brush stroke, every curve of each letter.

Nevermind that weeks from this moment he would find himself in a dark room, unable to sleep, depressed and suicidal, clinging on the last thread of a life void of all meaning. Right now all he felt was the tingling of victory He just wanted to hang on to it.

Just a little bit longer…

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