On The Mountain

Sometimes, I wish I would not hunger– that I would not need food, or drink, and could live by exploration alone. That wherever I went, I’d stand against whatever elements could throw at me, but still be vulnerable to man and beast. My mortality only realized by the threat of something else living, and not my own need to live.

Myself, and a backpack of few possessions, only needing to do tradework to wash up and shave every once in a while, and be able to buy for those who still needed sustenance so I could share in conversations with them, complete strangers for me to happen upon, and share experiences. Stories. Memories.

And then when I tired of human interaction after a while, I’d retreat into the wild. Only my need to breathe air prominent, and to beat the elements enough to move onto the next day. I would rest upon the mountainside, overlooking the rivers and streams that have made their way over aeons of work through the woods and mountains, proving that even the strongest can succumb to those seeking the simplest path.

I would contemplate many things while alone. I’d contemplate humanity, our place in the gap of it all, and how far we can truly go if we tried. It’s never a measure to know how far one has come, but always how far one thinks they can go. That should be the true measure of any person, I’d think. I would contemplate on the mountainside, or in the lake as I bathe, or by the ocean as the water laps at the small grains of sand that have come to start anew as bedrock later.

We hurt. We bleed. We heal. We live. We die. But we also laugh, and stare at awe in things together, and make believe about things which may or may not be out there controlling our destiny in one form or another. But we are. We are all that we have for each other. For all of the things beyond the sky that holds our air in that brings us rain, which fertilizes the earth or the dirt that meets with the sky, we are it– as far as we know. We are here, and in both local communal sense and as an entire species, we are it.

And so, with that contemplation complete, I’d come back from the mountainside and into civilization, to share in this profound (re)discovery. And I would continually cycle this way. Just like the water, which goes into the earth, which collects into rivers, lakes and oceans.

We are all a cycle. What we make of it with others– that’s what makes us special amongst the stars. Remember that when you are hurt, or laughing. When you’re talking, or on your mountainside. All is a cycle, and all can be made whole again.

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