Anthesis of Sadness

I no longer knew how long I had been climbing. The minutes, the hours, maybe more, had dissolved somewhere between two steps.

The sky, itself, had lost its bearings. Or maybe it had never had any. It was no longer a direction, nor a refuge, nor a promise. Just a blurry expanse, without beginning or end, as if suspended above me without wanting to respond.

And I kept climbing, searching for a shape in that void, without knowing if I was rising toward something... or sinking deeper still.

The fog would not dissipate. It didn’t recede, didn’t yield anything. On the contrary, it thickened, slowly, insidiously, until it became almost tangible. A strange, clammy, living density, that coiled around me like a tightened throat.

It was heavy, saturated, compact, thick... like a voice one had wanted to scream but had swallowed at the last second. A smothered word. A heavy silence that clung to the skin, to the eyes, to the soul — and from which one could no longer break free.

I was limping. My step grew unsteady, unbalanced, pulled sideways by a dull pain that settled in without noise but with determination.

It bit into my hip, in small regular stabs, then slowly climbed, insidiously, to my shoulder, like a creeping fever, finally settling into my wrist — the one holding the child.

There, it pulsed, heavy, throbbing, as if that arm, that anchor point, carried far more than his weight. As if everything I still refused to let go passed through it.

He didn’t cry. Not a sound, not a tremor. His face remained smooth, almost peaceful, as if he were sleeping... or pretending. Maybe he really was resting, curled in a peace I didn’t understand.

Or maybe he was waiting. Waiting for me. Waiting for me to falter, to give in, for my legs to finally give out. As if he already knew the moment would come — and had decided not to move until then.

In front of me... something appeared. Again. A new shape, a new rupture in the already fractured pattern of this now unbearable world.