The Magic Mountain

Living in Athens, I often go hiking in the nearby mountain, Parnitha. There I walk aimlessly on different paths. My internal compass pulses and directs me. For me, there is no one and nothing for miles. I am all alone in the world, a primitive being wandering among tall trees and getting lost in the primeval landscape.

The silence of the forest causes vibrations. An abyss opens before me. The traces of destruction are all around. Present, past, future coexist. I could roam like this endlessly, expanding the boundaries of my existence. I keep coming back to familiar places, trying in vain to stop the time, but it resists me. Nature is constantly changing and reforming, while in the background, the great landscape, the mountain masses remain unaffected.

I want to stay there even when there is a risk of getting lost in the dark, in the fog, or in a blizzard. More than anything, the white landscape, the silence, and the frost have a catalytic effect on me. Like Hans Castorp, the hero from Thomas Mann’s The Magic Mountain, almost hypnotized, I leave everything behind as I delve deeper and deeper into a snowstorm, in the process of getting lost. Part of me wishes to surrender to the merciful narcosis of Nature. But my heartbeat brings me back.