The man who cried — the story of a realized dream a tribute to Sir Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay

“It is not the mountain we conquer, but ourselves.” — Sir Edmund Hillary

He was at the top of the hill and he was with a water and salt solution dripping from his eyes and reduced to his knees. It was not a bad loss of water but rather one of massive disbelief, for what felt like millennia all he could see was the mountain. “Daunting” was all he could synthesize in his mind, he thought he would never see the top nor the magnificent view it may hold, but he started the ascent earnestly but surely, every step feeling like the beginning of a 1000 more. He had come to grips with the sad reality which was that he was probably going to die before he had reached the top. Spurred on by a soul compelled to continue the ascent by what could be explained as a higher power or a realm of spirituality enticing his soul. He had decided rather he’d die never having realized a dream than having lived a meaningless existence. The pain and a little voice of doubt in his head giving him all the more reason to turn around, “the descent is easier” says the little voice “and all you have ever known is down there, why leave all that for what could be a colossal waste of time and effort at the very least? Have you not heard of the old man with a face of regret permanently stamped on him as if a punishment for striking out and going it alone? Why go against the flow of all society for what?” The man understood the risk but his soul felt at home where many have deemed him to be a lost man on a fruitless endeavor. Then, during one of those days, regret began to make its way into his mind and he began to think that maybe they were right after all and that he should have just stayed. A wind of hope blew urging him forward — a symbol or a sign that it was possible and close. Tiredness being the only feeling evident, too tired even to feel the pain of the sacrifice that was still fresh in his memory. He rapidly began to regain strength as if his soul was renewed and he was becoming a new man. Was he dying? Had the heavens called for its creation back? Could he that crafted the man no longer stand to see his creation suffer? With the last amount of energy he had, he managed for what could have been the last time to lift his head, what he saw brought a man of strength who had come from far to conquer a thousand footsteps, to his knees and he wept, the rejuvenation of strength he had experienced earlier was not his soul departing to the gate of the heavens but the ground flattening, meaning the steep climb was no more and less strength was needed to advance. He had made it to the top, he cried louder than a newborn baby as he began to think he could cut short a journey that was filled with misery anyway. He had lost hope, he thought he’d never see the stars he soo vividly imagined. What had kept him going was the sad truth that going back would be more painful emotionally than staying on the path and seeing it through. This time for the first time he experienced what many in life would never truly grasp — freedom of soul, not its ascension from dying and leaving his body but rather its breath of new life into a being, causing the transcendence from being to conquerer. Many had foolishly wrote him off. As tears ran dry he saw the stars closer than he had ever imagined, he could see the promised land, a journey not of ease or beauty but one of relent and determination, he died hailed by those who once mocked him — a hero. He was laid to rest on the mountain that he would forever rest on, and it was to be called Mount Everest.

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