A Bolivian Breath

I hold my breath. An attempt to claw back the equilibrium that has shifted with my ascent. The endless sloping valleys that catch my eye from the window are a momentary escape from the discomfort of my twisted limbs and cramped seat.

Thy drugs are quick. Unlikely sleep becomes me and all is dark but for a distant light. A golden, shapeless glow stares me down and remains, unblinking. Its subtle form is a magnet to my eye and we share this empty space, two strangers paralysed by our own intrigue. Suddenly, the single gold spot splinters into a sea of colours and they fall towards me, each one eroding into a solid object as it hurtles through the air. I am struck by carved figurines, massaged by a shower of green leaves and nearly severed by giant letters. E. V. A final O arrows its perfect trajectory towards me and engulfs me in its hollow centre.

Darkness returns and I am once again alone with the single, golden entity. It, too, begins to fall towrds me, gathering pace with each chaotic moment. For the first time its true shape slowly emerges. A familiar shape. Head, torsoe, flailing limbs shaking in silent, furious protest. As a deafening rush bellows in my ears I realise I am the one moving, rising violently, uncontrollably towards a lonely target. The force of the air on my helpless body is too much, my final vision perceives a vague look of acceptance cross my companion´s vacant grin. The inevitable impact shatters its unborn heart, and there is calm.

I am comfortable, my arms and legs draped across a bed of soft mandarins. There is a woman next to me, perched crookedly on a three-legged stool. The wrinkles on her face converge around her eyes as she turns her gaze towards me. With every beat of my still racing heart I summon the energy and composure to say something.

´I´m lost.´

She smiles at me, each contortion of her withered lip reaching out to me with endless reassurances and offerings of serenity. With a slow, soothing voice she speaks, and each syllable reverberates with the unmistakable weight of wisdom.

´Ever is it so.´

The eye of the storm. I am violently wrenched from my plateau and hurled back into the mayhem. I am Butch Cassidy, my champion steed racing me past dusty canyons and demonic rocks. I am Che, savouring the taste of the air as my final breath passes my lips. I am the biting chill, my jagged arms ruling over a moon-lit landscape. I am a single drop of sweat, running from the cheek of a passenger, falling helpessly and solidifying in the icy wind, before finally breaking into a million tiny pieces on a blinding white plain.

I exhale. I am awake. The familiar cycle of air soothes my quivering body.

El Altiplano. Ever is it so.