And then I'm atop the mountain, exhausted, feeble, trembling, sweat peppered with sand congealing in the cool evening breeze on my face and neck. I am all bruised knuckles and thin wheezing but it is worth it. The sun begins it's final dip behind the ocean and the city explodes in violent golden lights, a litter of gems strewn at the base of the mountain, glittering, eager to be found. From my vantage point, I watch the last of the shadow play against the side of Table Mountain, stark, long reaching, smothered in a rolling fog cascading over the edge. The diminishing sunset stains the hem of the horizon with deep rusted golds and lusty fugitive reds before surrendering to the sea. A sea breeze nearly knocks me off my feet and I cry out unexpectedly. My lower back is in knots. And it's time to descend.
And then I am in a smoky room, the clinks of glass-against-glass mingling with the subtle anonymous din of a thousand conversations, the low lights casting sepia shadows like smeared honey, my fingertips trembling at the edge of a microphone, a sea of disinterested strangers. And then the music begins and I forget. The words come like an incantation. I get out of it's way and let it happen like dreams do. It is a rising, a raising, an ascension, a surfacing at long last with flailing arms and great gulps of air. And then it is over and I am vibrating, my beard dripping with beer and laughter, contributing to the cacophony. I belong here, if only for now, and it is wonderful.
The word for it is something like home but I do not know, and dare not say.
I. Am. Living.
