He tied his boat among the rocks, and soon began to climb. Slowly, every so slowly, he went foot by foot, climbing away from shore and onto what should be called land, but really was nothing more than rocks.
When he tried to look above there was no grass of green. More and more rocks awaited our man, and still he climbed. The sun beat down, and clouds covered the top so our poor man could not see his destination, but still he climbed.
'It appears as though God has taken a day off today,' he thought to himself. And still he climbed up and up, even though the rocks were always coming.
When the stones cut into his palms, and the toes of his shoes wore down till his toes peeked out, and when the sun burned what skin it could, and when the wind cut through his clothes and chilled his bones, he still kept moving forwards. He couldn't see the sea below him, and there was nothing in front of him but clouds.
And still our poor man climbed, and climbed, and climbed.
To reach the top and say that he made it when no one else had before. Even though no one before had ever made it up the mountain, and that everyone fell, he will be the first to make it.
Blood began to drip from his palms and down his arms. He left bloody handprints wherever he touched. Besides his boat it would be the only proof that he had been there.
Our poor man fell into a level of purgatory, where he couldn't tell if he really was moving, because the land and sky never got closer or farther away. Still he climbed, and even at one point abandoning his jacket because it weighed too much for him.
Suddenly there was no more sea beneath him, and he was in the clouds. No, he wasn't in the clouds, he was the clouds. His hands weren't hurting from the rocks and numbness anymore. At a moment he was everything, and he knew that he had reached the top, except there was no top. He was a part of the sky, where the birds flew and the sun rose and set.
He quit rising, and stayed in place, until he could no more.
And our poor man fell.