I still miss Utah mountains sometimes. They stop you dead—they really do. The first snow, every year, I’d walk out of my apartment, and the mountains would be at least a mile closer to me than usaul, looming over my head and ready to step all over me, my car, my house, my friends, my dog, and everything I held dear to me. But they didn’t. Instead they just looked. There’s something creepy and yet compelling about a mountain that’s so ready to eradicate you with it’s might and it’s strength but instead, it just looks. I really don’t know how to put it, but there were moments next to the mountains that I felt so incredibly small, that I wasn’t even registered on a map, or a census, or a timeline, or a universe. Like a Dr Whovian moment it was just me and that mountain in the crisp half-second before the sun would rise, and I realized what my 5 lackluster years in Utah was to a mountain and his 5 billion years. I realize that to a mountain, all of my everything is just a blink.
And that’s my top-of-my-head free write for today, everybody. I’m going to go back to computer scripting now.
howlsamesame: USA 12 a view from the road as we head onward towards Moab. I loved the tree like patterns of the snow mimicking the tree in the foreground and (at a pinch) the horizontals of the field and the rock strata. UTAH
(via the-rx)
