Stop what you're doing. Please. Whatever it is, I need you to stop for a moment, and focus. Pause your music, put your food to the side, and just stop. It may sound like an odd request, but I need you to focus on your surroundings. To feel the texture of your clothes against your skin. Is the fabric soft? Rough? Pay attention to the air as it brushes against your lips and rushes into your mouth and lungs; feel your chest collapse when you breathe out seconds later. I need you to look up and pay attention to the details of the room you're in. Is it light? Dark? Colorful or dull or some combination of the two? Are you cold, or are you melting in the summer heat? Can you smell rain? I need you to feel your pulse. Can you feel your heartbeat? Good. I need you to hold your hand for a few seconds and feel the warmth of your skin—let your thumb drag against the top of your knuckles. What is that like? Had you forgotten what the feeling of your own flesh felt like? No? Okay, you can continue as you were. Resume your music, take another bite of your snack. I'm done asking you to actively participate. ...You're curious as to why I asked you to do these things, aren't you. Well, once upon a time, when I was very much a young child, I read a book where it was revealed that a minor character had been trapped in a book for fifty years. At the time, I hadn't paid much attention to it—the characters never lingered on that fact, not even the boy in question, so there was no reason for me to give it any mind. It certainly didn't help that the character was a villain in the story, one who did terrible, awful things, whom I was not supposed to sympathize with. It was never made into a big deal, so I forgot it. It was only when I reread that book for what was probably the sixth or seventh time that I actually thought through the implications of such a thing. Fifty years. What that it be like? To be stuck in a book for so long? I couldn't help but think it might be comparable to a box. A small, tiny box, with no light. Worse yet, you can't touch anything, can't feel anything. A normal box, at least, would allow you to feel the walls around you. You might hear the sounds made by anything outside the box, but this isn't a normal box. This box is magic, remember, which means you can't see anything, you can't feel anything. I might go as far as saying that even something as simple and normal as breathing might be impossible. The complete and utter lack of anything would be more than enough to drive one mad after only spending a week in such a box. But fifty years? As someone who hasn't lived to be half of that yet, this is entirely beyond my realm of comprehension. It's a lesson in gratitude, though it might not look like it at first. It's why I began to put myself through that little exercise I asked you to do earlier. If you were to go fifty years without so much as a single breath, with nothing but your own thoughts for company...well, I don't think either of us want to know what that looks like. We rely on our sight, our hearing, our touch, everything, so much so I can't even begin to imagine what it would be like to go without them. One or two, yes, but to lose all of them? To be stuck not only blind and deaf, but to be so lost there is absolutely nothing that will let you orient yourself? To be stuck in darkness without the pulse of your own heartbeat there to steady you? Truly, sensory deprivation is one of the worst tortures humanity could devise for itself. But...as awful as it is, that's what makes me grateful—the fact that I still have this. That I can take any moment out of the day and look around myself, hold onto the seconds as they slip by and comfort myself with the fact that I can still feel my sweater as it slides against my skin. I can still smell the laundry detergent that lingers in the threads of the fabric. I can hear my roommates bickering in the kitchen about who does the dishes and who picks the music. I can admire the way the light refracts through my window and pours tiny rainbows across the walls. It's odd, how much this tiny thought about a random character actually ended up changing my life so much. I've picked up another language —one that I can speak with my hands— and in doing so I've learned so much about people who live without their hearing. I've done enough research on the use of solitary confinement in prison systems and the negative effects it has on a person that I should probably just write my next essay on that. I wake up just about every day thrilled with that I still have as much as I do, and it encourages me to do my best. So, I was hoping that this lesson —as dark and terrifying as it might be at first glance— might help you, too. The world is a beautiful, beautiful, place, and I find it and all of its many gifts to be just so amazing. I think it's important we appreciate every little detail, no matter how small, for as long as we can.

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.