A somewhat serious back injury, then inflamed shoulders, aching joints, and now a weak wrist. In four weeks I have climbed as many times, and I am finding myself searching for excuses to not go back.
It is easier at times to not climb, to keep in mind but the ghost of a passion, something unsullied and as near to perfect as it could be. Before getting hurt, movement was a love that held me dear as I held it, and I fear marring it with now-shaking hands.
I dream as sweetly as any man could, and I know intimately the rousing touch of morning, a threshold concrete like that of sleep’s gentle thaw.