There’s something about mountains that makes me feel powerful yet powerless at the same time, shocking me into an awed, satisfied silence. First I feel as though I’m on top of the world, standing upon the highest peaks of a vast landscape and meeting the sky like an equal, close enough to touch the clouds and shake hands with them.
As time passes though, and you keep driving for hours and hours across endless rolling hills, you cannot but help feeling like a grain of sand amidst a great vastness too large for your mind to comprehend. The layers of different coloured rock sediments, different shades and tints of soft red and purple, serve as monumental evidence of the wise age of the ancient mountains who have been there for millennia. Their elderliness looms over your youthful, short, mortal human life, but somehow your soul feels at home.
At some points you look into the horizon, unsure of where the mountains end and the clouds begin, the two worlds languidly morphing into one immense extraterrestrial whole whilst you are left behind, engulfed in this greatness, becoming part of an eternal abyss that surpasses time and space.