Imagine this: You are hundreds of feet above the ground, attached only with a rope. The wind blows through your hair; it's the only source of sound. Above you the sky is blue; the sun is bright. Below, you can almost see the spot you camped in the night before. Behind you is a valley full of trees; a river snaking throughout. In front of you is a slab of ancient granite that rose from the earth millions of years ago. The rock doesn’t care that you are on it; doesn’t feel your presence. But you feel it. You feel it with your mind and your soul and your feet, enclosed in climbing shoes, and your hands, dusted with chalk and just barely continuing to grip the holds in front of you. Though your heart is pounding and your adrenaline is pumping, your mind is clear, plotting your next move. Fear grips you, but it’s a good fear. It’s manageable. It’s enthralling and invigorating. It’s visceral. You and your fear, and your strength, and the old, timeworn rock before you are the only real things in the world. You make your next move, and the next, flowing, flying, dancing up the wall until you reach the top. You take a deep breath, then another, and you turn to face the earth and sky behind you that had disappeared from your mind briefly during your focus.
You are on top of the world.