The mountains are wearing little clouds like hats, and in this moment things feel ‘normal.’ The mountains know things neither you or I could dream of, and yet… from the view, one could surmise, that they’ve never forgoten how to be silly, or fashionable.

I thank the creator for this.

You know, nature would reach out and save us if we’d only let it. Why don’t we just let it?

Gods, why?

Bits of Autumn hang in the turning leaves, and I sit here weeping at the subborn nature of man.

Help us, God, help us.

I drift to a memory of a timeline where all of my journals and their endless musings are intact. I can see them stacked on bookshelf upon bookshelf, organized as they have been in this life, by intuition and madness alone.

In them, the knowing of too much time knowing. The bleeding pain of it, and the peace. Bound to paper that is bound to precarious piles that are bound to the fabric of the known universe.

Help us, God. Please?

I think to myself that maybe someday I would like to be a mountain, and in the very same breath, I know that I have, and that it was far too resolute. I am certainly a flighty spirit for the job, aren’t I?

But, a spirit who endures nonetheless. Much to the approval and discomfort of…. well, just me.

So be it. Though we may not share countenance, we are quite alike in our solitary confinement, the mountains and I.

In solidarity I tip my cloud hat to the mountain; it winks back, and I am reminded that things in my world have never been ‘normal.’ In fact they’ve always been rather odd.

Was that the eye of the mountain or the eye of God? Is there any difference?

“You see, I don’t think I’ve felt safe enough to record my own thoughts in quite a long time, friend.” I say to the mountains.

“So, thank you. Also, lovely hats.”