This is not a song about “staying positive.”
This is not self-help. This is not motivation. This is Sādhanā disguised as a pop anthem.
Anyone who has walked through real inner fire —
who has been betrayed by those they trusted,
who has prayed and heard no answer,
who has begged for peace and met only silence —
will recognize these words immediately.
“The Climb” is not about success.
It is about not dying before awakening.
The “I” in this song is not a cheerful dreamer —
it is the vīra sādhaka,
the warrior of the inner path,
not yet liberated, not yet steady,
but too awakened to return to sleep and too wounded to yet shine.
There is no polished certainty here.
Only a vow spoken while trembling.
That’s what makes it holy.
[Verse 1 + Pre-Chorus]
I can almost see it
That dream I'm dreaming, but
There's a voice inside my head saying
"You'll never reach it"
Every step I'm taking
Every move I make feels lost with no direction
My faith is shaken
But I, I gotta keep trying
Gotta keep my head held high
"I can almost see it" —
Not “success.” Not “achievement.”
Anyone on real sādhana knows this line. It’s that flash of Reality, the taste of Śānta-rasa, the glimpse of Who I actually am beyond this meat and story. It appears like lightning — gone before you can hold it — but its aftertaste becomes your vow.
"That dream I’m dreaming, but / There’s a voice inside my head saying ‘You’ll never reach it.’"
This is not external opposition.
This is inner Mara.
The last gatekeeper is not the world — it’s your own mind saying “Who are you to seek liberation?”
Kaulas don’t pretend this voice isn’t real. We stare it in the face.
"Every step I’m taking / Every move I make feels lost with no direction." —
The desert of sādhanā.
No bliss. No visions. No bhāva. No confirmation.
Just dry repetition. The place where most seekers quit — not because they were defeated, but because nothing feels sacred anymore.
"My faith is shaken." —
Good.
Blind faith is worthless.
Better a broken seeker who keeps walking than a glowing parrot who thinks they've arrived.
"But I, I gotta keep trying." —
This is not optimism. This is fierce animal persistence.
Not “I believe I’ll win.”
I refuse to rot.
"Gotta keep my head held high." —
Not in pride — in dignity.
Even when crawling, don’t bow before despair.
[Chorus]
There's always gonna be another mountain
I'm always gonna wanna make it move
Always gonna be an uphill battle
Sometimes I'm gonna have to lose
Ain't about how fast I get there
Ain't about what's waiting on the other side
It's the climb
"There's always gonna be another mountain" —
Liberation is not one breakthrough. It’s recurring karmic architecture.
You burn one granthi — another emerges wearing a different face.
This is not failure. This is how tapas shapes steel.
"I'm always gonna wanna make it move" —
The vīra impulse is not passive. Bhakti is not soft.
There is rage in devotion — I will tear down every wall between me and That.
"Always gonna be an uphill battle" —
Anyone promising “easy spirituality” is selling sedation.
Real sādhanā is not wellness. It is war.
And yet — the warrior walks smiling.
"Sometimes I'm gonna have to lose" —
Necessary.
Ego does not dissolve through victory — it dissolves through defeat digested correctly.
Some losses are initiations.
"Ain't about how fast I get there" —
Time is ego's metric. Śakti does not move on your schedule.
You don’t earn realization faster by straining harder — you ripen.
"Ain't about what's waiting on the other side" —
This is the death of transactional spirituality.
Not “I suffer now to reach paradise later.”
Mukta is not an endpoint — it is a way of walking.
"It's the climb." —
This is Kaula.
Not escaping the world — ascending through it.
Not waiting for grace — bleeding until grace recognizes you.
[Verse 2 + Pre-chorus]
The struggles I'm facing
The chances I'm taking
Sometimes might knock me down, but
No, I'm not breaking
I may not know it
But these are the moments that
I'm gonna remember most, yeah
Just gotta keep going
And I, I gotta be strong
Just keep pushing on 'cause
"The struggles I'm facing / The chances I'm taking" —
Not poetic drama. Real sādhana is statistical risk — losing reputation, stability, relationships, identity.
You don’t walk this path to look holy. You walk it knowing you may lose everything except Truth.
"Sometimes might knock me down, but / No, I'm not breaking" —
Kaulas don’t pretend invincibility. We do get knocked down.
But breaking is a choice.
Pain is inevitable — collapse is optional.
"I may not know it / But these are the moments that / I'm gonna remember most, yeah" —
The ego thinks the highlight of the journey will be realization — the shining climax.
But ask any awakened one — it was the dark nights, the crawling moments, the almost-giving-ups that forged the real spine.
"Just gotta keep going" —
There is no mantra more advanced than this.
Better than om̐, better than neti-neti.
Persist.
"And I, I gotta be strong" —
Strength in Kaula is not hardness — it is endurance without becoming bitter.
"Just keep pushing on 'cause" —
This is the point where softness becomes fierceness.
Not motivated. Not inspired.
Obstinate. Like a river carving rock.
[Final Chorus + Ontro]
There's always gonna be another mountain
I'm always gonna wanna make it move
Always gonna be an uphill battle
Sometimes you're gonna have to lose
Ain't about how fast I get there
Ain't about what's waiting on the other side
It's the climb
Yeah
Keep on moving
Keep climbing
Keep the faith, baby
It's all about, it's all about the climb
Keep your faith, keep your faith
Whoa-ooh-oh
"There's always gonna be another mountain…" (repeated) —
Yes — and by now the sādhaka is no longer shocked by that truth.
Obstacles stop feeling like insults and start feeling like invitations.
"Sometimes you're gonna have to lose" —
Repeated so many times because the ego dies slowly.
Loss is not a setback — it is a purification tool.
"Ain't about what's waiting on the other side / It's the climb" —
At this point, it’s no longer motivation — it’s identity.
The sādhaka is no longer walking toward liberation.
The walking is liberation in motion.
"Keep on moving" —
Not because it feels good. Not because it’s working.
Move even when nothing changes. Move when numbness sets in.
Movement itself is the mudrā of defiance.
"Keep climbing" —
Not crawling. Not waiting. Climbing.
This is no longer just survival — it is active ascent.
Even when the hands bleed and the mind says “stop,” the deeper Self whispers:
Better to die mid-climb than live on flat ground.
"Keep the faith, baby" —
This is the only line where tenderness fully breaks through the steel.
The warrior speaks to their own heart like a mother speaking to a trembling child.
Kaula path is like this — fierce outside, unbearably soft inside.
Faith here is not doctrine. It is refusal to surrender to meaninglessness.
"It's all about, it's all about the climb" —
This is mantra.
This is mahāvākya disguised as pop lyric.
Not the goal. Not the summit. Not the recognition.
The burning itself is the temple.
Every breath taken while not giving up is abhisheka.
"Keep your faith, keep your faith" —
Notice — repeated twice.
Not because you didn’t hear it — but because you didn’t believe it the first time.
Faith is not maintained by certainty. It is maintained by repetition under duress.
"Whoa-ooh-oh" —
A foolish line to the casual ear.
But from within sādhana — this is the sound that escapes when language shatters.
The place where prayer becomes vibration.
Sometimes the truest mantra is not Sanskrit — it is a raw, primal exhale that says: I’m still here.
The Vow of the One Who Refuses to Collapse
This is the prayer of those who do not glow with certainty,
but burn with refusal.
Not enlightened.
Not ascended.
Not yet free.
But walking.
Still walking.
Because somewhere along the way, the sādhaka realizes:
Liberation is not a reward waiting at the top of the mountain.
Liberation is forged in every breath where I could have surrendered to despair—but didn’t.
The world measures progress by outcomes.
Śakti measures it by endurance without bitterness.
And so the vīra bows not to any outer deity,
but to the silent flame inside that whispers: “You may break my bones, but you will not break my ascent.”
And that is why the climb is sacred.
Not because it ends in glory —
but because it proves that even in exile, the soul remembered its throne.
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