High Berg in Winter

The silence is almost aggressive. Only its too peaceful. Not a breeze ruffles the downy white grasses, nor a moving of air ripples the shallow waters. Uneven ground forms mini plateau's , which slow my progress as I trudge up their strange staircase. Full sun and utterly cloudless skies provide no heat, only the slightest hint of purple. Dry lips and slightly stiff hands pry my mind away from the heavy weight on my hips. No path shows the way ahead, and I navigate by sheer experience. The monochrome brown has a beauty and starkness beyond words. My heavy breathing serves to focus my mind on this spectacle and empty my thought of all else. This living, plodding breathing is all that I am. A blot of colour on a perfect painting. I fear no endless space, such fear would certainly kill up here. So too could the solitude. I photograph the green of my pack out of sheer excitement. Its an unnatural colour, at home only much lower down and in far off countries. Here it is jarring display. It is a statement, focus in an otherwise natural artwork. I have gone to great lengths to introduce it to this scene, to make my photographic exaggeration of this lonely place. The idea will always please me more than the photo, as my hands prepare the cold metal for the exposure. I am in love with the plants. I want to roll amongst the helicrysum and caress the ericas. I want to put each one on stark display in a wooden windowed room, a bold remark of fortitude and creation. I want to scatter these dimpled basalt's on clean kitchen floors, and lay my tangled hair on crisp clean pillows. I want to blend these worlds to create a better place. Yet I know that such ideas are folly. No other place, no magnificent endeavour of human hands, No grand old building or shining new marvel could ever even approach the sheer unadulterated perfection of this nothingness