Mountains' Whisper, Oblivion

Seating precisely in the center of my room, the clock's tick tack, tick tack, weaves the rhythm of a world in miniature. I was struck by an epiphany, akin to quiet revelations found in the natural world: life itself does not hasten; rather, it is the human mind, a forgetful and fleeting thing, that lets slip the fragments and pieces of time. Life, in its boundless expanse, doesn't rush; time doesn't scurry. It is a lesson in observation, in seeing the 'soft animal of your body' with the same patience and awe with which one might regard the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, announcing their place in the family of things, my Oliver.

In choosing not the train nor the shortest path but the longer, prettier route, we find a beauty unconfined by the rapid pace of existence. Climbing the mountain to view the city as an outsider, I embrace a detachment, a peace found in the observation of life's play from a distance, an artist or a poet standing apart from their canvas, yet deeply connected.

As I sit with the stars, watching the city, the life from afar, I am reminded of the playful deception of existence. The alarm's insistence pulls me back, a return to the chaos below, yet the mountains, through my window, offer a silent wink, a whispered reminder of the ephemeral beauty in the everyday and the impermanence of our sorrows and joys. "Don't forget," they seem to say, in a voice as calm as pensiveness and as perceptive as critique, "Now, amidst the chaos, absorb as much as you can—the love, the sadness. We will wait for you, to return here, and together, as avid observers, we will watch as everyone and everything else loses itself in the relentless race of life, while we, smiling, understand the profound truth hidden within the spectacle."