the climb to owa daim shrine

The climb has me breathless, exhilarated. As my stamina wanes, I’m afraid, hopeful, proud. I have a good body. I have the conditioning. I have the will. The world is broken, flawed, but beautiful. The enemies deserving of pity, simple, duped. But still they have to go. 

I hunt. I eat meat. I fell trees. I grow stronger. I risk, I lose, I win. 

My grip, my lungs, my aches, my triumphs. I’m all alone out here. I get cold and wet. I get lost. I get shrouded in the heavy black shrouded of hopelessness and then start walking, trying to outrun it. 

The rock is hard, unyielding, real. The mushrooms enticing with their possibility of future flavor. 

The world is pretty enough. The people well enough. I could just leave it be. I need accept the challenge and sit beneath a tree. I see clouds and stars and distant orange glowing. I see fireflies and hear rustling. 

Why did I even start this climb?

I reach the top and catch my breath and see the shrine. I already know what’s inside: a challenge, a power, a responsibility. I don’t need any of them. 

But do I want them?