I think I can say that what I love most about him, by far, is his weirdest characteristic. He likes to climb trees. I like that. I think I mainly enjoy the peculiarity of it. It's a different hobby, quite unique. It's amusing. I also enjoy watching. The actual action is fascinating. First, he places his hands on the trunk, the skin in direct contact with the dry bark of the tree. He scratches the tips of his fingers in a rough caress over its surface, measuring age and resilience. It's important to know the path he's about to venture. This is also a ritual of concentration, hands on the plant's body and his forehead resting on his wrists. He takes a deep breath once, twice. A small jump is necessary to gain momentum. His knees are bent, and his body propels upwards, floating in the air for milliseconds as if he could fly. Before returning to the ground, however, he defies gravity. It requires a lot of strength. When he jumps and embraces the tree, every part of his body needs to exert force. He remains there, suspended for a second, clinging to the large trunk. The next step is made with his hands. He grabs the nearest branch, carefully ensuring it doesn't break. His feet begin to find imaginary footholds, and the tree could easily be mistaken for a ladder. He touches the dirtied shoes against the trunk as if climbing rungs, but all the force is in his arms clinging to the tree's rough skin as he pushes upwards, stretching his fingertips to grasp the next branch and support his elbows wherever he can. His body rises as if it had no weight, or as if all the world's strength resided in the arms pulling him up. He climbs, each movement calculated to maintain the rhythm and avoid making a mistake. Falling from such a high tree is unpleasant and borders on dangerous. From there, he smiles, his feet in the air, sitting like a child on a swing. He looks down, one hand on the branch where he sits and the other resting on the tree's surface as if thanking the host for the warm welcome. His eyes shine as brightly as the sun casting light through the leaves. He lets out a childlike laugh, happy for another success. He enjoys the view from afar, every corner of the city visible from that height. Being at the top of the tree he climbed is a rewarding exercise, a way of planting his flag on new ground and declaring success. It's an accomplishment he takes time to appreciate. He rarely tries to climb the same tree twice. He knows that most trees allow reaching the top only once, paralyzed by the great surprise of being used as a toy. Next time the tree will be aware, already expecting the attempt as soon as it senses his presence. It will know how to break the right branch that will cause an inevitable fall. Every tree becomes aware after the first time. So, after declaring victory over one, he seeks another novice, some innocent plant distracted by the monotony of everyday life. The thing is... He has never climbed a tree. At least I have never seen him do so. I don't know if he likes it, or if he has ever done it in his life. I only know that I don't know if it's true or not. I've never seen any of this happen, but I described every detail. Why? In the vastness of my love that doesn't define itself, doesn't diminish, and doesn't change over time, I often feel the need to write about him. Him, who is my favorite person in the whole world. Him, whom I love so much, and who, by loving so much, takes all my words away. Sometimes I want to write so much about him, that I don't know what to write about, and with no ideas left, I am left only with the incredible urgency and need to describe him with my poor words. I feel so suffocated by what I want to say and I don't know how to express it. Anything will do. It might be this. The activity of climbing trees, something I've never seen anyone do, not him, nor anyone else, but the poetry within me reinvents it into real scenes and makes me see. I can describe something that never happened because creativity flows through my body until it reaches written words. My love flows and invents stories like this, which are infinite. And for him, who taught me to live independently of life and that each moment is a farewell, I can write a million words, even if they can never be eternal. It's okay, I keep in my heart the certainty that my love doesn't end, and I will continue to love every characteristic of him, even those that don't exist and I invent, like his fondness for climbing trees. He has never climbed a tree, but he might as well try.

Staring at the screen before me, endlessly morphing faces and changing voices, it kept me there, transfixed into a deep lul, neither growing nor regressing, a perfect channel filled with nothing in an empty package. I was still, my spirit was still, filled with static, calm without peace. A notification popped up on my phone as if it were to interrupt this stillness. A coworker of mine was invited to go rock climbing with some acquaintances, and he did not want to be among too unfamiliar a company, so he extended the invitation to me. I became an unwitting participant. Staring at the 15-foot wall, I decided to go forward, scaling a more difficult route, and I began by placing my feet on the proper holds, both hands where they were meant to be. One step at a time, reaching for what's just barely in my reach. Placing my right foot on the hold that was between my knees. Grabbing that U-shaped rock by stretching my body to its limit. Bringing myself up, until the final rocks of the route are at my hand. Looking down, bracing myself for the fall, and letting go. A fall, cushioned, a surreal feeling washed over me, in spite of my tired body, my mind was more than ready to tackle the next route. Hours later my body could barely move, even forming a closed fist was difficult, and when forced, painful. This pain couldn't even bother me, and as I left the bouldering wall, and went home I decided to do something more with my time. I had come to the realization, a simple one, yet one that rarely presents itself, the viability of failure. I didn't succeed every time I tackled a new route, sometimes falling midway, sometimes right at the beginning. I could feel myself becoming discouraged at times, but that feeling was supplemented with determination. The determination to eventually conquer that wall, and move on to the next one. I had come to realize that in my own life, I had come to forgo those difficult walls, the hard problems that life gives you. I grew discouraged by the initial failings, while at the same time envying those who had seemed to naturally excel. Only by falling again and again, and seeing others fall with me, did I realize there was not a single person who was the best from the beginning, we all learn from our falls more than our rises. The line that divides the competent from the incompetent is if we rise back up after we fall. I remember the first time I tried to play the piano, and considering I was only at the tender age of 7, you can only imagine the beautiful melodies I produced, which is to say, none. I stopped playing after the first time I touched the keys, yet years later, I decided it was an appropriate time to start playing again. I had no nuance, no accents, nothing to speak of, I fell over and over, stumbling upon the keys, yet it was when I struggled past my failings that I began to truly learn. That's when we learn, when we accept our failures and move past them, to gleam lessons from our falls and use them to climb just a little bit higher than before, one step at a time, one outstretched hand at a time, and one note at a time. Failures cannot define us, it is what we do with them that becomes us.

I nibble on a cookie, my eyes transfixed on the puffs of smoke emerging from the peak of the volcano. My lips catch my breath before it can escape into the cool air. An ominous rumble echoes from within the shadows, and we watch in awestruck wonder as glowing orange chunks spew into the sky, racing past one another and grasping at the stars. Just out of reach, the embers relinquish their dream and streak back to earth, tumbling down the steep embankment until the shadows devour their brilliance. I wish I could watch this forever. It's early, but I say goodnight and duck into the tent, pulling another sweater over my head before burrowing into my sleeping bag. The rumbling lulls my eyelids to a close and I drift into sleep. I first notice the cold tickling my nose, and then the ache that clamps down on my shoulder as I roll over and dig for the watch inside my backpack pocket. 3:00 a.m. My fingers fumble for the zipper and I wiggle out of my sleeping bag, stuffing it into its sack and then sitting on it until the last hiss has escaped. I cram my feet into my hiking boots as I stumble to the door, shuffling along the edge of the path as the sand threatens to pull me down the precarious slope. Grabbing an outstretched hand, I pull myself safely into the light of the crackling fire. My backpack sends up a cloud of dust as it hits the ground and I puff hot air into my hands before bending down to tie my laces. I grab a bowl of oatmeal and a spoon, squishing between two others on a rickety bench. As the bowl begins to thaw my stiff fingers, the oatmeal glides down my throat with ease and smolders in my stomach like the embers in the fire. I've only just scraped the last remnants of breakfast onto my spoon when the guide calls for our attention. “Time to get moving if we want to make that sunrise!” He gestures up the volcano, our path cloaked by a blanket of shadows. With my backpack snugly fitted against my shoulders, I slip into the line and I run my fingers over my headlamp, fumbling for the button. For a brief moment the light shines and I can see how caked with dust my boots are, but then it fades and dies. Quickening my pace, I follow closely at the heels of the person in front of me, scrounging for what leftover light I can put my feet in. As we walk, my boots slowly begin to materialize out of the darkness, and I turn and pause for a moment. A warm orange glow is beginning to stretch across the purple clouds that cascade like ocean waves, and the glistening lights strewn across the hillsides are growing dim. Running out of time. My breath and feet fall into a rhythm for the next hour or so as we trudge up the winding path. As I emerge from a cluster of trees, the wind strikes my cheeks with sharp lashes. The burning only intensifies as we continue to scramble up higher, finally catching a glimpse of the other side of the volcano. I try to scrunch my face, but my numb cheeks hang lifelessly. Clenching my hands around my poles sends pain shooting through my fingers, but I grimace and wiggle them more. “Let's wait here for the others to catch up,” the guide announces as we duck behind a large boulder. I struggle to unclip the strap from my waist and tug open the zipper with my mittens on, but taking them off isn't an option since they're the only thing keeping my fingers from falling off. I yank another sweater from my pack and pull it over my head. I suck in a breath but the icy texture makes me shudder and regret it. By the time the last person has snuck behind the rock, I am eager to get going again. “This is the last stretch,” the guide comments, motioning up the formidable, steep hill. The sand collapses beneath my feet and I plunge my poles in ahead of me, pulling myself on top of them. I pause for a moment until I feel steady again. Two steps forward, one step back. Repeat. My eyes track the person stumbling upwards in front of me. Just make it to where they are. Good, that's good. Now up a little farther. I coax my shaking body from one checkpoint to the next, and my feet cry out in relief when they hit solid dirt rather than sand. I did it...I can't believe I did it! As I try to take in the view, I meet my friend's eyes and my lips explode into a grin as we throw ourselves into each other's arms. I shuffle closer to the edge of the volcano and sit down on a boulder to watch the sky. At last, the sun finally peeks over the horizon and warmth begins to stretch across the sea of clouds, casting sparkles across the hills. I can't help but wonder if the sun waited for me to get to the top before unveiling itself. The bottom of the clouds are bathed in warm yellow, while the tops are drenched in a deep violet that bleeds into the sky like a waterlogged painting. This is more beautiful than I ever could have imagined. The frigid air now feels exhilarating in my lungs. As I sit and gaze at the glowing horizon, I realize—I didn't conquer the volcano, I conquered myself.