I have not yet waved my white flag.
I feel exhaustion and I feel defeat, I am tired of fighting and my body cannot take much more.
But I have not yet waved that white flag.
My head pounds, each thud becomes louder as it drowns out my muddled thoughts. I close my eyes in hopes of finding peace in every breath I take, but it hurts to breathe.
And the white flag has not yet been waved.
My lips quiver as I fight to hold back the tears, the first escapes and with that a flood more, harsh and unstoppable. I clench my jaw in hopes that the silence will bring some clarity, but my cry escapes without much of a fight.
And that white flag remains un waved
I caress my fragile face with the warm tissue that is my hand and remind myself why I am still here, why, although defeat stares me blankly in the face, I have not yet waved my white flag.
I will not wave that white flag.
“Excuse me, where can I find the telephone graveyard?” was the question my friends and I were throwing about in a small town in Yorkshire, only to be looked back with blank stares and obvious confusion. We couldn’t bear to continue asking. It was something we’d seen online and had been curious enough to to make an hour trip from a hotel in York.
The locals had us thinking we were off the rails, so I plucked up the courage and asked one last time. “A telephone graveyard?” replied the cashier as she graciously scanned the first item, “I’ve never heard of such a thing”. She must have seen disappointment in my unfamiliar face, as she grabbed a second item. “Wait, you don’t mean the scrapyard do you?”, she squinted, “I mean, I wouldn’t really call it a telephone graveyard, it’s just an old dump”.
I brightened up, and after a lengthy chat – the kind you only get in small towns, where no one ever looks in a hurry – we got back in the car, with every intention of reaching our ‘Everest’. But it was dark and hunger got the better of us, so before we had the chance to even open the pack of cookies we had just bought, we were already on our way back to the place we were temporarily calling home.
Therefore, after much meditation on what went wrong, I’ve decided that one day I will make that trip back to Yorkshire, just to see what all the fuss is about.
I know I’m winning at life if I’m able to cleanse my face before going to bed. On the contrary, if I wake up confused at the crack of dawn with no real idea of what time it is, then I know things aren’t going well. And if I’m still in my ‘going out’ clothes, then things REALLY aren’t going well. This happened last night (surprise, surprise). I rushed to the bathroom to brush my teeth and put my retainers in (the struggle is real), when I look up at the mirror and am confronted with my make up staring back at me just as I had left it, but oilier, much, much, oilier (emphasis on the oily). I have to say, I was impressed my lipstick was still in tact, but oh how I’ve failed at living. This can’t be a good start to the week. Hey ho, at least I have something to write about.
Sagarmatha. If only you knew how much I think of you. My days spent wishing and my nights spent dreaming. You are my obsession. My inexplicable obsession. You are bold and you are austere. Dangerously elegant but gracefully dangerous. How many others fantasise about you? How many risk their lives to be with you? But you will never belong to anyone… and still I long for the day you will belong to me. My beautiful Everest.