All That Matters
I'm on the tip of a mountain. On my left a steep drop to the canyon below. On my right a similar view. Death lingers on the peripheral. And I'm sprinting. Chasing companions and a virally famous canine along the ridge of the crater. I imagine this strip of land without the trees and bushes growing up around the edges. It is a stark and terrifying image of vertigo and demise. And yet I run. Footsteps make bargains with fate in every stride. I am racing my confidence, only a single wavering breath behind. How? How and more so why? We slow as the trail grows thinner, more tangled with plant life and slims to the size of Ariakes so only one step at a time can be made.
"Let go," he says. "Let it out." As if the world is waiting for my presence to be known. And I realize that it is. I realize that this land is unaware of me and anything I've ever said, thought, or done. To this mountain I am invisible. And so I yell. At first short and succinct, just to test my voice in the air. But then, with some encouragement I let it ring out across the valley. I am here, now.
But the mountain says nothing. It refuses to acknowledge me or my voice or my footprints on its spine. It doesn't care. It doesn't matter. I can hear my voice as it echos its way down the slope and I care. It matters to me. I know. I am here, now.
And so I run, tired and slow, but onward. Until there is no more trail to chase and I reach the end. And then instead of shouting I sit. I rest my bones and my fears on the edge of the world and I know. I am here, now. And that is all that matters.
"Let go," he says. "Let it out." As if the world is waiting for my presence to be known. And I realize that it is. I realize that this land is unaware of me and anything I've ever said, thought, or done. To this mountain I am invisible. And so I yell. At first short and succinct, just to test my voice in the air. But then, with some encouragement I let it ring out across the valley. I am here, now.
But the mountain says nothing. It refuses to acknowledge me or my voice or my footprints on its spine. It doesn't care. It doesn't matter. I can hear my voice as it echos its way down the slope and I care. It matters to me. I know. I am here, now.
And so I run, tired and slow, but onward. Until there is no more trail to chase and I reach the end. And then instead of shouting I sit. I rest my bones and my fears on the edge of the world and I know. I am here, now. And that is all that matters.
