The ascent is a repetitive, almost monotonous act-looking upward, sighing, surpassing, only to find oneself caught in the same endless cycle. No matter how many pilgrims are left behind, or how fiercely one resists the passage of time, there is always another figure farther beyond the horizon. And when the gaze turns downward, the ghosts below are already looking back. The mountain is never merely a destination. It is a landscape where ambition, comparison, memory, and mortality continuously mirror one another.