A final few hundred steps were climbed to believe that you can do anything, you can be anything, even if it is everything, even if it is nothing. You are okay.
Three thousand and five hundred steps and then three thousand and five hundred more were climbed to reach bliss point. There was hot tea, careless laughter and dumbfounded disbelief.
Three thousand and five hundred steps and then three thousand and five hundred more were climbed to reach bliss point. There was rain, there was hail and there was snow. There were clouds, mountains and a chimney stove. There wasn’t money, there wasn’t electricity and there wasn’t soap. There weren’t telephones, warm baths or fresh clothes. It was bliss point.
Three thousand steps were climbed to taste the sense of an ending (and a beginning).
Two thousand and some hundred steps were climbed to feel the limbs give up and the conversations with feet cease.
Twelve hundred steps were climbed to feel the lungs complain and the frustration pile up again.
The sun slid down the sky that threatened to tear the dark clouds asunder so that tears and fear threatened to magnanimously make their presence felt.
Two hundred and sixteen steps were climbed to realise that bliss does not come easily.
Little by little, a wise trekker once said.
Love Affairs In & With Nepal