• Vol. 01
  • Chapter 12
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Sometimes they think he can be caught and conquered. Brought down to street level, placed in war torn towns, sliding a sense of calm through conflict like oil.

Or they think he can be manifested on paper, with contracts and laws, binding vocabulary or even embodied by yoga poses and men wearing robes. Birds and branches. Parted fingers. Meditation.

I want to find him. Snag my nails on his shawl and snatch some fibres. Take a part of him away. Place my hand to his face and feel the steady exhalation of his breath. The thread of warmth. I want to plant my feet beside his and turn my torso south and watch the sun’s journey as he does. Survey the same land. Watch the rocky white world below unfold its glacial edges like a piece of giant origami. Inhale the same oxygen. Listen to the silence.

They say he can be found on the mountain range at the edge of expectation where the clouds meet the sky and the colours divide. Where language fails and philosophy evaporates. Where the air is so thin that you can push holes in it.

There will be challenges along the way. Ice and avalanches. War and fear. Rape and disease. Kidnappings, murder. Forgotten faces and statistics that rocket, plunge and twist. The stony terrain is cast with the spiked edges of unknown viruses. The wind shaking with the urgent panic of six billion beating hearts. Bombings on borders. Ragged youth and ego. Ideology.

To reach him takes determination.





But there you will find him.

If he exists.

Standing at the summit. Bone and skin on slate. A shadow against sun. A pagoda of rock, picked out in grey.

Breathing slowly with the chill of winter’s vapour, particles of moisture escaping from his lips, his nose, and fogging down the mountainside. Softly falling as snow on snow.

There he will be waiting, with a shadow of hope. A face lined from time and hair frosted white. Waiting to cast aside the world’s red cloak of despair.