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The landscape was changing, and fast. He could see the light steadily withdrawing across the ice shelf, and he needed to stop. It had snowed all that day, a tempestuous sky had thrown itself at the landscape, which simply sat there and welcomed it. It had begun to anger him, the way nature simply went about its’ business with such a flippant disregard for anyone or anything. It used to enthral him, but not any longer. He looked at his watch and stopped. The sleigh cover was iced solid, and the horizon was rapidly turning from sickly yellow to terrifyingly sharp black. He padded about the area, checking for weaknesses in the ice and snow, and then set up his camp, fingers trembling as he settled down for the night. He couldn’t keep on doing this.
Long ago the dream had been to explore. Andes, Himalayas, the frozen wastes of Siberia, the Arctic and now this, the last continent at the bottom of the world, frozen and alien from man. He’d used to spend hours in the warm summerhouse looking through books on places where there was nothing but yourself and your will against the world. Atlases had strewn his house, marks made of whimsical journeys on which the world had set itself at his feet and welcomed in him to the great fold, the silly notion of symbiosis between man and nature. He knew that now – nature was oblivious to his terror and struggle. He was one tiny insignificant speck, and for once, that tiny insignificant speck didn’t want to be there. It didn’t want to lose itself. It wanted to be large, important and needed by something.
He steadily ate his food, hurriedly taking in all the energy he could, and then lay back. He was beginning not to care. His months worth of work was around him, slowly broken equipment and tired necessities he needed to live with. The inside of his tent was too familiar, he felt sick. Nothing had prepared him for the total loss of will. Why was it so difficult to lift his arm to pull his survival bag up? He couldn’t say exactly, but the world was different to what he had imagined it to be. The unexplored wilderness or what was left of it. What had changed in him? He fell into a daze. A colour burrowed itself into his eyes, he couldn’t voice what it was, it was just there. He sighed and turned onto his front, and weaved down into his bag more, for warmth, a colour still playing across his eyes. What had gone wrong with the promised world? When his friend had fallen in the crevasse? Was that where it had gone wrong? He didn’t know. He turned and put on some music, his one luxury in the world of utilitarian need.
Outside, the light had gone, replaced by a steel sky that was remorseless in its oblivion. It was so dark the snow was invisible, and the black expanse stretched for hundreds upon hundreds of silent miles, except for the creaking of ice and the low murmur of the wind whipping through the fresh snow. It was bleak, empty and above all, absolutely lethal. Little darts of wind scurried and forced snow across crevasses, along plains of silent and crystal sharpness that just simply lay cold. The snow settled and flurried in the wind, while all along the horizon, distant mountains surveyed the deathly miles with imperious and ignorant iciness. Inside, he fell asleep. The tent fell silent along with the continent. A tiny speck that didn’t want to be there.
He woke up suddenly, and a small nagging doubt, drilled by days of travel, awoke. He’d been ‘awake’ at night before, and once even found himself outside in the snow with no realisation of what had happened. He’d been very lucky he hadn’t died, he’d told himself repeatedly. Very lucky. He hadn’t been freed like his friend who’d slipped like he had, just he fell into the centre of the Earth and never came back. He’d rocked back and forwards for warmth while quietly mouthing the words. This time again, he couldn’t be sure if he was awake or dreaming. Either way, the tent was dark and he struggled for the torch. The weak and damp light flicked on and he scanned the tent sides to see if the snow had risen further up than before he’d given into to sleep. It was dark. Well, he half smiled to himself – everything was dark now. He sat up and immediately the world span and his leg gave a dull ache. He was pretty sure he was awake. But he didn’t want to go back to sleep. His ached pained from the day before – he checked his watch – yesterday. He’d slipped and fallen heavily on his left leg, and somehow managed to cut himself on a knife in his pocket. The blade was out, which was very unusual, and he’d thrown it far into the as then, azure distance. His leg hadn’t bled badly, but he’d had to staunch it quickly lest it freeze. He’d stared too long at the blue veins in his leg, at the terribly fragile flesh that had carried him to this forsaken place where dreams meant nothing and survival was more about fighting your mind than going the right way. He leant against the frozen side of the tent and turned off the music. It was nearly over, the battery and track almost finished. He unzipped the inner section of the tent, and peered out, and the air for once welcomed him. He knew what he was doing was stupid, but he was beyond stupid, he just didn’t care. The night had cleared, diamonds shone from another world above him, the landscape disappearing into a deep and dark blue that he knew concealed more endless vistas, then the metallic sea….the sea. What did it look like again?
He unzipped the out layer and pulled on his boots and clothes, zipped, secure and cocooned, and he snatched up the music player as well. He got up and stumbled forwards, the leg hurting more in the night air that was as keen as it was endless. He breathed in deeply, his face already beginning to crust with ice crystals, his breath falling as it was expelled. He looked about the tent and brushed off some of the snow, more out of habit than purpose, and then he walked forwards, striding into the night. He was tired and cold, and getting colder by the second, but the purpose had totally gone by now. He was alone in the wild and didn’t want to be any longer. He’d watched how the snow fell onto the plain, and nature still turned and continued, and he knew he’d be like that too. One day, if not that night, he would be. As he walked he pulled his hood up, and then he stopped, and robotically turned 90 degrees to his right, and laughed a little as he did. He was free from the constraints the dreams had put on him, and strode forwards again, purposefully marching into the heart of the continent. It began to snow again.
The hairs were torn up sharp and quick, like his mum had always said. The wound opened, the tissue torn and immediately he cried out because the air had entered and struck a cruel blow into the cut, the blood that had burst free freezing and the wound turning black as he watched it. It wasn’t big, and it didn’t hurt much, once the pain of the hairs being torn out had subsided, but he knew somewhere he’d just done something very stupid in the circumstances. He threw down the bloodied and disgusting bandage and walked on, his leg turning cold beneath his clothes. Something inside him cried horribly. His friend had cried horribly on their way down, down past his flailing arms as they desperately tried to cling to the hope and the body of his friend. He’d lain there and stared into the dark hole that reflected itself in his eyes. Then he’d got up, re-attached himself to the sleigh, and marched, a tear crystallizing on his check, which had been sharply and painfully ripped off a second later. Now the pain was worse than the tear, or indeed the moment the knife had severed both his skin and his will. He was growing even more tired, and then stopped as he saw the first shaft of dim light surf over the horizon, the darkness suddenly slit in two and he fell down, collapse, the leg gave way. He fell into a doze again, and this time the cry inside him was audible and comprehensible, and he knew he’d never get up again. He smiled and waited for the day.
Outside, the sun had risen over the frozen plains, the clouds letting thin stripes of tired light into a land that needed a thousand suns to heal its heart. Inside, inside the continent and the bottom of the Earth, he awoke one last time. His face was frozen, his arms stiff and he didn’t feel the wound. He moved, terribly slowly, onto his side, and pressed play on his player. Thin music pierced the air, and he pulled up the ice caked headphones and hit them on his frozen left leg, once, twice, sighing each time as the light slowly spread about the landscape. He moved the headphones up to his head and put them on, before resting and letting the world take him. The snow fell, the music played into the dying nerves of his body and he smiled, one last time, one last sweet moment as the music entered his heart, nature entered his mind and he at last, at long last, was free from the dreams that had become so wrong and real. His smile froze and he lay in the lightly swirling snow at the bottom of the world, a tiny insignificant speck at last where it wanted to be, covered in watery light and pathetic drops of snow, the last dying breaths of a song playing in his ears. Then all was silent, and the continent lay still, and over all, the mountains and hundreds of silent miles watched and sighed.
Long ago the dream had been to explore. Andes, Himalayas, the frozen wastes of Siberia, the Arctic and now this, the last continent at the bottom of the world, frozen and alien from man. He’d used to spend hours in the warm summerhouse looking through books on places where there was nothing but yourself and your will against the world. Atlases had strewn his house, marks made of whimsical journeys on which the world had set itself at his feet and welcomed in him to the great fold, the silly notion of symbiosis between man and nature. He knew that now – nature was oblivious to his terror and struggle. He was one tiny insignificant speck, and for once, that tiny insignificant speck didn’t want to be there. It didn’t want to lose itself. It wanted to be large, important and needed by something.
He steadily ate his food, hurriedly taking in all the energy he could, and then lay back. He was beginning not to care. His months worth of work was around him, slowly broken equipment and tired necessities he needed to live with. The inside of his tent was too familiar, he felt sick. Nothing had prepared him for the total loss of will. Why was it so difficult to lift his arm to pull his survival bag up? He couldn’t say exactly, but the world was different to what he had imagined it to be. The unexplored wilderness or what was left of it. What had changed in him? He fell into a daze. A colour burrowed itself into his eyes, he couldn’t voice what it was, it was just there. He sighed and turned onto his front, and weaved down into his bag more, for warmth, a colour still playing across his eyes. What had gone wrong with the promised world? When his friend had fallen in the crevasse? Was that where it had gone wrong? He didn’t know. He turned and put on some music, his one luxury in the world of utilitarian need.
Outside, the light had gone, replaced by a steel sky that was remorseless in its oblivion. It was so dark the snow was invisible, and the black expanse stretched for hundreds upon hundreds of silent miles, except for the creaking of ice and the low murmur of the wind whipping through the fresh snow. It was bleak, empty and above all, absolutely lethal. Little darts of wind scurried and forced snow across crevasses, along plains of silent and crystal sharpness that just simply lay cold. The snow settled and flurried in the wind, while all along the horizon, distant mountains surveyed the deathly miles with imperious and ignorant iciness. Inside, he fell asleep. The tent fell silent along with the continent. A tiny speck that didn’t want to be there.
He woke up suddenly, and a small nagging doubt, drilled by days of travel, awoke. He’d been ‘awake’ at night before, and once even found himself outside in the snow with no realisation of what had happened. He’d been very lucky he hadn’t died, he’d told himself repeatedly. Very lucky. He hadn’t been freed like his friend who’d slipped like he had, just he fell into the centre of the Earth and never came back. He’d rocked back and forwards for warmth while quietly mouthing the words. This time again, he couldn’t be sure if he was awake or dreaming. Either way, the tent was dark and he struggled for the torch. The weak and damp light flicked on and he scanned the tent sides to see if the snow had risen further up than before he’d given into to sleep. It was dark. Well, he half smiled to himself – everything was dark now. He sat up and immediately the world span and his leg gave a dull ache. He was pretty sure he was awake. But he didn’t want to go back to sleep. His ached pained from the day before – he checked his watch – yesterday. He’d slipped and fallen heavily on his left leg, and somehow managed to cut himself on a knife in his pocket. The blade was out, which was very unusual, and he’d thrown it far into the as then, azure distance. His leg hadn’t bled badly, but he’d had to staunch it quickly lest it freeze. He’d stared too long at the blue veins in his leg, at the terribly fragile flesh that had carried him to this forsaken place where dreams meant nothing and survival was more about fighting your mind than going the right way. He leant against the frozen side of the tent and turned off the music. It was nearly over, the battery and track almost finished. He unzipped the inner section of the tent, and peered out, and the air for once welcomed him. He knew what he was doing was stupid, but he was beyond stupid, he just didn’t care. The night had cleared, diamonds shone from another world above him, the landscape disappearing into a deep and dark blue that he knew concealed more endless vistas, then the metallic sea….the sea. What did it look like again?
He unzipped the out layer and pulled on his boots and clothes, zipped, secure and cocooned, and he snatched up the music player as well. He got up and stumbled forwards, the leg hurting more in the night air that was as keen as it was endless. He breathed in deeply, his face already beginning to crust with ice crystals, his breath falling as it was expelled. He looked about the tent and brushed off some of the snow, more out of habit than purpose, and then he walked forwards, striding into the night. He was tired and cold, and getting colder by the second, but the purpose had totally gone by now. He was alone in the wild and didn’t want to be any longer. He’d watched how the snow fell onto the plain, and nature still turned and continued, and he knew he’d be like that too. One day, if not that night, he would be. As he walked he pulled his hood up, and then he stopped, and robotically turned 90 degrees to his right, and laughed a little as he did. He was free from the constraints the dreams had put on him, and strode forwards again, purposefully marching into the heart of the continent. It began to snow again.
The hairs were torn up sharp and quick, like his mum had always said. The wound opened, the tissue torn and immediately he cried out because the air had entered and struck a cruel blow into the cut, the blood that had burst free freezing and the wound turning black as he watched it. It wasn’t big, and it didn’t hurt much, once the pain of the hairs being torn out had subsided, but he knew somewhere he’d just done something very stupid in the circumstances. He threw down the bloodied and disgusting bandage and walked on, his leg turning cold beneath his clothes. Something inside him cried horribly. His friend had cried horribly on their way down, down past his flailing arms as they desperately tried to cling to the hope and the body of his friend. He’d lain there and stared into the dark hole that reflected itself in his eyes. Then he’d got up, re-attached himself to the sleigh, and marched, a tear crystallizing on his check, which had been sharply and painfully ripped off a second later. Now the pain was worse than the tear, or indeed the moment the knife had severed both his skin and his will. He was growing even more tired, and then stopped as he saw the first shaft of dim light surf over the horizon, the darkness suddenly slit in two and he fell down, collapse, the leg gave way. He fell into a doze again, and this time the cry inside him was audible and comprehensible, and he knew he’d never get up again. He smiled and waited for the day.
Outside, the sun had risen over the frozen plains, the clouds letting thin stripes of tired light into a land that needed a thousand suns to heal its heart. Inside, inside the continent and the bottom of the Earth, he awoke one last time. His face was frozen, his arms stiff and he didn’t feel the wound. He moved, terribly slowly, onto his side, and pressed play on his player. Thin music pierced the air, and he pulled up the ice caked headphones and hit them on his frozen left leg, once, twice, sighing each time as the light slowly spread about the landscape. He moved the headphones up to his head and put them on, before resting and letting the world take him. The snow fell, the music played into the dying nerves of his body and he smiled, one last time, one last sweet moment as the music entered his heart, nature entered his mind and he at last, at long last, was free from the dreams that had become so wrong and real. His smile froze and he lay in the lightly swirling snow at the bottom of the world, a tiny insignificant speck at last where it wanted to be, covered in watery light and pathetic drops of snow, the last dying breaths of a song playing in his ears. Then all was silent, and the continent lay still, and over all, the mountains and hundreds of silent miles watched and sighed.
Thanks.
Very good.
The landscape was changing, and fast. He could see the light steadily withdrawing across the ice shelf, and he needed to stop. It had snowed all that day, a tempestuous sky had thrown itself at the landscape, which simply sat there and welcomed it. It had begun to anger him, the way nature simply went about its’ business with such a flippant disregard for anyone or anything. It used to enthral him, but not any longer. He looked at his watch and stopped. The sleigh cover was iced solid, and the horizon was rapidly turning from sickly yellow to terrifyingly sharp black. He padded about the area, checking for weaknesses in the ice and snow, and then set up his camp, fingers trembling as he settled down for the night. He couldn’t keep on doing this.
Long ago the dream had been to explore. Andes, Himalayas, the frozen wastes of Siberia, the Arctic and now this, the last continent at the bottom of the world, frozen and alien from man. He’d used to spend hours in the warm summerhouse looking through books on places where there was nothing but yourself and your will against the world. Atlases had strewn his house, marks made of whimsical journeys on which the world had set itself at his feet and welcomed in him to the great fold, the silly notion of symbiosis between man and nature. He knew that now – nature was oblivious to his terror and struggle. He was one tiny insignificant speck, and for once, that tiny insignificant speck didn’t want to be there. It didn’t want to lose itself. It wanted to be large, important and needed by something.
He steadily ate his food, hurriedly taking in all the energy he could, and then lay back. He was beginning not to care. His months worth of work was around him, slowly broken equipment and tired necessities he needed to live with. The inside of his tent was too familiar, he felt sick. Nothing had prepared him for the total loss of will. Why was it so difficult to lift his arm to pull his survival bag up? He couldn’t say exactly, but the world was different to what he had imagined it to be. The unexplored wilderness or what was left of it. What had changed in him? He fell into a daze. A colour burrowed itself into his eyes, he couldn’t voice what it was, it was just there. He sighed and turned onto his front, and weaved down into his bag more, for warmth, a colour still playing across his eyes. What had gone wrong with the promised world? When his friend had fallen in the crevasse? Was that where it had gone wrong? He didn’t know. He turned and put on some music, his one luxury in the world of utilitarian need.
Outside, the light had gone, replaced by a steel sky that was remorseless in its oblivion. It was so dark the snow was invisible, and the black expanse stretched for hundreds upon hundreds of silent miles, except for the creaking of ice and the low murmur of the wind whipping through the fresh snow. It was bleak, empty and above all, absolutely lethal. Little darts of wind scurried and forced snow across crevasses, along plains of silent and crystal sharpness that just simply lay cold. The snow settled and flurried in the wind, while all along the horizon, distant mountains surveyed the deathly miles with imperious and ignorant iciness. Inside, he fell asleep. The tent fell silent along with the continent. A tiny speck that didn’t want to be there.
He woke up suddenly, and a small nagging doubt, drilled by days of travel, awoke. He’d been ‘awake’ at night before, and once even found himself outside in the snow with no realisation of what had happened. He’d been very lucky he hadn’t died, he’d told himself repeatedly. Very lucky. He hadn’t been freed like his friend who’d slipped like he had, just he fell into the centre of the Earth and never came back. He’d rocked back and forwards for warmth while quietly mouthing the words. This time again, he couldn’t be sure if he was awake or dreaming. Either way, the tent was dark and he struggled for the torch. The weak and damp light flicked on and he scanned the tent sides to see if the snow had risen further up than before he’d given into to sleep. It was dark. Well, he half smiled to himself – everything was dark now. He sat up and immediately the world span and his leg gave a dull ache. He was pretty sure he was awake. But he didn’t want to go back to sleep. His ached pained from the day before – he checked his watch – yesterday. He’d slipped and fallen heavily on his left leg, and somehow managed to cut himself on a knife in his pocket. The blade was out, which was very unusual, and he’d thrown it far into the as then, azure distance. His leg hadn’t bled badly, but he’d had to staunch it quickly lest it freeze. He’d stared too long at the blue veins in his leg, at the terribly fragile flesh that had carried him to this forsaken place where dreams meant nothing and survival was more about fighting your mind than going the right way. He leant against the frozen side of the tent and turned off the music. It was nearly over, the battery and track almost finished. He unzipped the inner section of the tent, and peered out, and the air for once welcomed him. He knew what he was doing was stupid, but he was beyond stupid, he just didn’t care. The night had cleared, diamonds shone from another world above him, the landscape disappearing into a deep and dark blue that he knew concealed more endless vistas, then the metallic sea….the sea. What did it look like again?
He unzipped the out layer and pulled on his boots and clothes, zipped, secure and cocooned, and he snatched up the music player as well. He got up and stumbled forwards, the leg hurting more in the night air that was as keen as it was endless. He breathed in deeply, his face already beginning to crust with ice crystals, his breath falling as it was expelled. He looked about the tent and brushed off some of the snow, more out of habit than purpose, and then he walked forwards, striding into the night. He was tired and cold, and getting colder by the second, but the purpose had totally gone by now. He was alone in the wild and didn’t want to be any longer. He’d watched how the snow fell onto the plain, and nature still turned and continued, and he knew he’d be like that too. One day, if not that night, he would be. As he walked he pulled his hood up, and then he stopped, and robotically turned 90 degrees to his right, and laughed a little as he did. He was free from the constraints the dreams had put on him, and strode forwards again, purposefully marching into the heart of the continent. It began to snow again.
The hairs were torn up sharp and quick, like his mum had always said. The wound opened, the tissue torn and immediately he cried out because the air had entered and struck a cruel blow into the cut, the blood that had burst free freezing and the wound turning black as he watched it. It wasn’t big, and it didn’t hurt much, once the pain of the hairs being torn out had subsided, but he knew somewhere he’d just done something very stupid in the circumstances. He threw down the bloodied and disgusting bandage and walked on, his leg turning cold beneath his clothes. Something inside him cried horribly. His friend had cried horribly on their way down, down past his flailing arms as they desperately tried to cling to the hope and the body of his friend. He’d lain there and stared into the dark hole that reflected itself in his eyes. Then he’d got up, re-attached himself to the sleigh, and marched, a tear crystallizing on his check, which had been sharply and painfully ripped off a second later. Now the pain was worse than the tear, or indeed the moment the knife had severed both his skin and his will. He was growing even more tired, and then stopped as he saw the first shaft of dim light surf over the horizon, the darkness suddenly slit in two and he fell down, collapse, the leg gave way. He fell into a doze again, and this time the cry inside him was audible and comprehensible, and he knew he’d never get up again. He smiled and waited for the day.
Outside, the sun had risen over the frozen plains, the clouds letting thin stripes of tired light into a land that needed a thousand suns to heal its heart. Inside, inside the continent and the bottom of the Earth, he awoke one last time. His face was frozen, his arms stiff and he didn’t feel the wound. He moved, terribly slowly, onto his side, and pressed play on his player. Thin music pierced the air, and he pulled up the ice caked headphones and hit them on his frozen left leg, once, twice, sighing each time as the light slowly spread about the landscape. He moved the headphones up to his head and put them on, before resting and letting the world take him. The snow fell, the music played into the dying nerves of his body and he smiled, one last time, one last sweet moment as the music entered his heart, nature entered his mind and he at last, at long last, was free from the dreams that had become so wrong and real. His smile froze and he lay in the lightly swirling snow at the bottom of the world, a tiny insignificant speck at last where it wanted to be, covered in watery light and pathetic drops of snow, the last dying breaths of a song playing in his ears. Then all was silent, and the continent lay still, and over all, the mountains and hundreds of silent miles watched and sighed.
Long ago the dream had been to explore. Andes, Himalayas, the frozen wastes of Siberia, the Arctic and now this, the last continent at the bottom of the world, frozen and alien from man. He’d used to spend hours in the warm summerhouse looking through books on places where there was nothing but yourself and your will against the world. Atlases had strewn his house, marks made of whimsical journeys on which the world had set itself at his feet and welcomed in him to the great fold, the silly notion of symbiosis between man and nature. He knew that now – nature was oblivious to his terror and struggle. He was one tiny insignificant speck, and for once, that tiny insignificant speck didn’t want to be there. It didn’t want to lose itself. It wanted to be large, important and needed by something.
He steadily ate his food, hurriedly taking in all the energy he could, and then lay back. He was beginning not to care. His months worth of work was around him, slowly broken equipment and tired necessities he needed to live with. The inside of his tent was too familiar, he felt sick. Nothing had prepared him for the total loss of will. Why was it so difficult to lift his arm to pull his survival bag up? He couldn’t say exactly, but the world was different to what he had imagined it to be. The unexplored wilderness or what was left of it. What had changed in him? He fell into a daze. A colour burrowed itself into his eyes, he couldn’t voice what it was, it was just there. He sighed and turned onto his front, and weaved down into his bag more, for warmth, a colour still playing across his eyes. What had gone wrong with the promised world? When his friend had fallen in the crevasse? Was that where it had gone wrong? He didn’t know. He turned and put on some music, his one luxury in the world of utilitarian need.
Outside, the light had gone, replaced by a steel sky that was remorseless in its oblivion. It was so dark the snow was invisible, and the black expanse stretched for hundreds upon hundreds of silent miles, except for the creaking of ice and the low murmur of the wind whipping through the fresh snow. It was bleak, empty and above all, absolutely lethal. Little darts of wind scurried and forced snow across crevasses, along plains of silent and crystal sharpness that just simply lay cold. The snow settled and flurried in the wind, while all along the horizon, distant mountains surveyed the deathly miles with imperious and ignorant iciness. Inside, he fell asleep. The tent fell silent along with the continent. A tiny speck that didn’t want to be there.
He woke up suddenly, and a small nagging doubt, drilled by days of travel, awoke. He’d been ‘awake’ at night before, and once even found himself outside in the snow with no realisation of what had happened. He’d been very lucky he hadn’t died, he’d told himself repeatedly. Very lucky. He hadn’t been freed like his friend who’d slipped like he had, just he fell into the centre of the Earth and never came back. He’d rocked back and forwards for warmth while quietly mouthing the words. This time again, he couldn’t be sure if he was awake or dreaming. Either way, the tent was dark and he struggled for the torch. The weak and damp light flicked on and he scanned the tent sides to see if the snow had risen further up than before he’d given into to sleep. It was dark. Well, he half smiled to himself – everything was dark now. He sat up and immediately the world span and his leg gave a dull ache. He was pretty sure he was awake. But he didn’t want to go back to sleep. His ached pained from the day before – he checked his watch – yesterday. He’d slipped and fallen heavily on his left leg, and somehow managed to cut himself on a knife in his pocket. The blade was out, which was very unusual, and he’d thrown it far into the as then, azure distance. His leg hadn’t bled badly, but he’d had to staunch it quickly lest it freeze. He’d stared too long at the blue veins in his leg, at the terribly fragile flesh that had carried him to this forsaken place where dreams meant nothing and survival was more about fighting your mind than going the right way. He leant against the frozen side of the tent and turned off the music. It was nearly over, the battery and track almost finished. He unzipped the inner section of the tent, and peered out, and the air for once welcomed him. He knew what he was doing was stupid, but he was beyond stupid, he just didn’t care. The night had cleared, diamonds shone from another world above him, the landscape disappearing into a deep and dark blue that he knew concealed more endless vistas, then the metallic sea….the sea. What did it look like again?
He unzipped the out layer and pulled on his boots and clothes, zipped, secure and cocooned, and he snatched up the music player as well. He got up and stumbled forwards, the leg hurting more in the night air that was as keen as it was endless. He breathed in deeply, his face already beginning to crust with ice crystals, his breath falling as it was expelled. He looked about the tent and brushed off some of the snow, more out of habit than purpose, and then he walked forwards, striding into the night. He was tired and cold, and getting colder by the second, but the purpose had totally gone by now. He was alone in the wild and didn’t want to be any longer. He’d watched how the snow fell onto the plain, and nature still turned and continued, and he knew he’d be like that too. One day, if not that night, he would be. As he walked he pulled his hood up, and then he stopped, and robotically turned 90 degrees to his right, and laughed a little as he did. He was free from the constraints the dreams had put on him, and strode forwards again, purposefully marching into the heart of the continent. It began to snow again.
The hairs were torn up sharp and quick, like his mum had always said. The wound opened, the tissue torn and immediately he cried out because the air had entered and struck a cruel blow into the cut, the blood that had burst free freezing and the wound turning black as he watched it. It wasn’t big, and it didn’t hurt much, once the pain of the hairs being torn out had subsided, but he knew somewhere he’d just done something very stupid in the circumstances. He threw down the bloodied and disgusting bandage and walked on, his leg turning cold beneath his clothes. Something inside him cried horribly. His friend had cried horribly on their way down, down past his flailing arms as they desperately tried to cling to the hope and the body of his friend. He’d lain there and stared into the dark hole that reflected itself in his eyes. Then he’d got up, re-attached himself to the sleigh, and marched, a tear crystallizing on his check, which had been sharply and painfully ripped off a second later. Now the pain was worse than the tear, or indeed the moment the knife had severed both his skin and his will. He was growing even more tired, and then stopped as he saw the first shaft of dim light surf over the horizon, the darkness suddenly slit in two and he fell down, collapse, the leg gave way. He fell into a doze again, and this time the cry inside him was audible and comprehensible, and he knew he’d never get up again. He smiled and waited for the day.
Outside, the sun had risen over the frozen plains, the clouds letting thin stripes of tired light into a land that needed a thousand suns to heal its heart. Inside, inside the continent and the bottom of the Earth, he awoke one last time. His face was frozen, his arms stiff and he didn’t feel the wound. He moved, terribly slowly, onto his side, and pressed play on his player. Thin music pierced the air, and he pulled up the ice caked headphones and hit them on his frozen left leg, once, twice, sighing each time as the light slowly spread about the landscape. He moved the headphones up to his head and put them on, before resting and letting the world take him. The snow fell, the music played into the dying nerves of his body and he smiled, one last time, one last sweet moment as the music entered his heart, nature entered his mind and he at last, at long last, was free from the dreams that had become so wrong and real. His smile froze and he lay in the lightly swirling snow at the bottom of the world, a tiny insignificant speck at last where it wanted to be, covered in watery light and pathetic drops of snow, the last dying breaths of a song playing in his ears. Then all was silent, and the continent lay still, and over all, the mountains and hundreds of silent miles watched and sighed.