King Of The Mountain

King of the mountain. We played it as kids, the race to the top of the hill or a mound of dirt. The first one to the top would be dubbed the king of the mountain. When playing with bigger kids, kids with more power, the game became a lot more difficult to play. The big kids would often push the smaller kids backward so as to insure first place for themselves. The smaller kids just wouldn't have a chance against those with more power.

And the smaller kids learned not to play king of the mountain against those with more power. Either that, or they would find a way to outsmart the bigger kids. Personally, I never could figure out a way, so I just flat out stopped playing a game that I could never win.

I sit here at the bottom of the mountain for the third time in my life. The first time, I wasn't fast enough. The second time, I wasn't smart enough. The third time will take sheer fortitude to begin a trek up a mountain of which I risk being pushed down again.

The mountain is euphoric to scale up. I am happiest when climbing; my feet suring up in the smallest of crevises, my balance teetering whimsically against the breeze, my face chafing in the airy climate of solitude.

The mountain is not uninhabited. A monster lurks there, in caves with no tell-tale entrance and in dark shadows of loathsome lime stone. He is one who would push me off the mountain, for he feels powerless when I succeed. Yet, I feel powerless when I fail.

When alone on this mountain, I have visions of intelligent life, dreams are colored in pink clouds, and the happiness melts away all the sadness carried in the weight of my climbing body.

A monster again I shall face down. Again, just one more try. Perhaps this time I will outsmart him, outrun him, and have the courage to overtake his fear of my success.