i’ve been wanting to write about mountains. about the way they comfort my soul. of winding dirt roads, of crumbling rock slopes, of a vastness so deep you could forget there exists a world beyond those peaks. my heart belongs to the scent of fallen pines and my body could never tire by the burn of uphills and inclines. my lungs breath best in mountain air, and hanging over a mountain-top town, i look down, at a village that sleeps still. as if cast into a spell, as if everyone survives in drugged air.
among polished stars and a startling breeze, i stood insignificant to nature’s majestic beasts. i laid myself bare and waited…and waited…and waited…for the greatness of their poetry to consume me.
i returned empty.
in a high up paradise, no words could find me. instead of letters and phrases i devoured silence and spaces. on cliffs overlooking waves of misted water-colored tips, unmoved by centuries, i understood at last why the greatest of sages took to the highest of heights to ponder over answer-less questions, to search for meaning–there is no such calling from the seas.
a mountain girl at heart, i am filled with dirt riddled with seeds. my fertility comes from mountain streams. my spontaneity flows on a mountain breeze. and now, hanging above clouds, i’ve left my wants written on leaves, that giggle and shake as they spread on the branches of trees, way up there, on a mountain, that cannot contain me.
i am blissfully happy.