Why is it that climbing is the thing that hits hardest.  I don’t know.  Every time I look at a picture of a person climbing I am flooded with emotions diverse but dominated by rage.  It hurts more than I think I can cope with.  Perhaps its because it’s a preview, a sneak peak at what I am leaving behind.  It is the first of the many things I love that I can not do.  I can still read, listen to music, spend time with the people I love, but I can not climb.  At least not to the level that I want.  I can probably struggle up a 13 or 14 but its like going from flying to jumping off the bottom step, there is no comparison.  I want to pull dynoes above the crystal clear water of vietnam.  I want to climb limestone cliffs high above the French plains.  I want to try the crux pitches of Selathe high above the Yosemite valley.

But it looks like that will never happen.  Instead it is most likely that the tumours will keep growing and eventually my body will no longer be able to cope.  I will die in my bed, eyes closed dreaming of all the things I love.

So now I look at pictures, amazing visuals of a thing I used to hold next my heart and I get angry.  I see my slide into oblivion.  I see my demise from glory.  I see my own weakness. I see what is wrong with the world.  I no longer see the beauty and the joy.  And that makes me sad.