There is not much in it: between a pulverised mountain and a pulverised heart. From the outset, they are both formidable. Immovable, unsurpassable, unassailable. Daunting. Although most do not realise the magnitude they are up against. In the effort to conquer another’s heart; 6,803.8855 kg of explosives dropped.

There are four chambers to the heart, two major passageways, and ventricles and countless veins and some arteries. There are a couple of tendons that are so strong and crucial that they lift the entire of that lump of muscle. And drop it too.

There is a brazen self-satisfaction in conquest. As any mountain climber who scales slopes and sees the world from a rare perspective knows, it is a perilous journey. Once you have surmounted your love, and planted your flag, you declare your dominion over this heart.

There in the Nangarhar province of Eastern Afghanistan lies the White Mountain. 50 km to the West is the Khyber Pass: a place of resistance against all invading forces. The Soviets in the 80s. The Americans and their bedfellows in the 00s. It is limestone and has a deluxe range of naturally formed homely caves on offer with spacious kitchens. Although, I have been informed it can get a bit on the dark side.

And what about inside, the slumbering caverns and chambers and caves. Who knows what you would find. What resistance, eking out a lean existence, waiting for an opportune moment to blow.

Reduce to fine particles.

Defeat utterly.

The shutter released and I knew the image was one that revealed defeat utterly. The limbs entwined and languid, exhausted from the battles of love and hate. There are dunes that appear as monumental as mountains. To have come back and stood on the precipice, my eyes cast on the horizon I knew so well. Reduced to fine particles of black dust. A dune. Unstable, the direction of the wind – the whim of it – deciding the shape of the horizon. I encounter you, but I am yet to meet the same person twice.