It's 3.12 am and I'm up, white light of my phonescreen in my face. I have to wake up at 5 am to leave for a 7 hour trek but my eyes refuse to shut.
You know, today, I drove all the way up on one of these mountains that fence the balcony. On way, I gave lift to children returning from school. One of them, an 8-year-old, agreed to walk me to the highest point. A paltry 500 meters but enough to make me terribly pant while matching up to his pace. How would I carry on for 12 kilometers tomorrow? Milds are not good, you had told me from experience. That's why you preferred Ultras. Resolving to quit as soon as I get back (the usual), I found myself watching our uncharacteristic balcony from a vantage. I wondered if you knew a novella is being written there? A series of letters to someone who might never read them. Letters of loss so impassioned that even love-letters will feel shy. Letters from the balcony.
From that tiny insignificant protrusion of concrete which mountains won't ever rest their eyes on, he talks of mountains talking to him. Mountains crying with him sometimes. The truth is mountains don't give a fuck. The truth is he's delusional. Not only about the mountains.
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