March 17 2010, Shangri-La County, Shika Snow Mountain.

I am writing this from part of the Himalayas range. Almost 4000m above sea level. Temperature, probably -10 degrees celsius. Wind speed...very strong. As I write I struggle to keep pen on paper and paer on hand. Why anyone would come to ths place in this godforsaken weather is a mystery, until you experience it for yourself.

The glaring sun shines against the snow-capped peaks, reflecting a white that hasn't been seen before. It glares back at the sun with almost the same ferocity, but also with a certain dullness. It's a white that is both striking and calm. As I walk on the wooden pathway, the wind rattles the structure and shakes it to its roots. Gingerly walking, I slowly make my way across a ridge, and all at once the world seemed to stop. The wind howled, the pathway rattled, the sun shone on and my breathing was still heavy from the thin air. But for those few moments none of it registered. In front of me, was the Himalayas, the roof of the world. It was a sight to behold. No. I believed at one point I stopped seeing and felt. It was a feeling of awe.

There are many points in life where we hear people or that we ourselves have spoken, of how man is a part of Mother Nature. We speak of it because we know that we depends on her and to some, that we are a part of her. It makes perfect sense and it is reasonable to believe in them. But they are blind statements. Here on this mountain, with only wind, snow, sun, trees and man, humans being part of nature is an experience. It is not a bunch of words scribbled on paper, not the electrical signals that find their way into your screens and ear pieces and not the sound waves that ravel through the air from another's mouth. Like the blind man who has read about the color red through Braille. Here on this mountain, the blind man, for this first time in his entire life, sees the color red. In that instant, nothing goes through his head. It is the child in him that holds in in place, reveling in awe. It is the adult in him that holds him in place, trying to understand this experience using his life's knowledge. At the end of the day he reaches only one conclusion. Whatever Braille said about red, it wasn't even close.

Standing on part of the pathway overlooking the Himalayas range, I place my camera on the handrails of the walkway and took a quick photo of myself. It will serve to remind me of this place in time to come. What I write now will serve to remind me of of the experience I had in this place in time to come. Time is a funny thing. It comes and goes, but here time has little meaning. In a city, a 15min difference can meaning being late for a job interview, and costing you a future career. Here in the Himalayas the difference only means a stronger wind and a higher sun. Nothing here changes, and for once in your life you can only hear yourself.

The winds howl a tune that drown out everything. At this height it's not like there is anything to drown out anyway. But as soon as the wind stopped I realised something. This stop in howling is also part of the larger orchestral piece the winds were playing. The break away from a routine is part of it. When a musician plays, the pauses between notes is just as important as the notes themselves. They determine the pace and the mood of the entire piece. The many pauses and breaks that we take in our life are part of our lives as well. Sometimes we do not get to our goal immediately, sometimes we get to them extremely quickly. There are times we feel distressed that obstacles get in our way, but take a step back, and see how these events color your life. Is it a piece in Staccato? Or a piece in Legato? There are times we are so used to sound that soundlessness feels empty, but this soundlessness is a sound as well.

The air is still when the wind dies. There is only the sound of my breath. I stop. Soundlessness. A silence that speaks more than sound could. Broken by the cry of a lone eagle. Strange. An eagle? I walk on, intrigued by the possibility of another creature wandering on this godforsaken terrain. Over another ridge, the possibility became reality. Tibetan prayer towers, constructed from random stones, with scriptures placed on them. On top of the discordant mess of rock, stood an eagle. Proud. It was white. I approached it and it took off. I felt sorry for disturbing the eagle's rest. A few seconds later the wind howled again. The sound was back. I climbed further on, partly wondering if I had disturbed it or saved it from the gale. Soon I was at the peak of the mountain. Behind me, a sharp slope down and a city beyond. In front of me, a deep valley and the rest of the Himalayas beyond. It was nothing short of beautiful.

These Tibetan prayer towers stand as a testimony of a time when monks climbed up to this very place to meditate. It is not hard to see why. Admist the howling wind and sun-baked terrain, you can only hear yourself. In all that noise and temperature, it is silent. Not a single voice. No rush of mad people fighting for their thoughts to be heard, no rush of mad people fighting for their thoughts to be accepted and no rush of mad people fighting for their thoughts to be accepted. This is a place for the tired. Where scientists come to die, where artists are born. This is a place where you don't have to convince others and hear then clamouring to say utterly nothing. This is a place for the world-weary. A place for the thinker that needs no recognition. For the lone seeker of truth. This is the birthplace of the introspective religion of tibetan buddhism. This is the Himalayas.

This is Shangri-La.