I am Guilty of This Landscape.

Take a moment, and steal a glance at this vista.

Do you see the landscape that I see?

The tips of the mountains peak out over the top of oily, thick clouds. These weather worn summits, once cradled in the soul of the earth, timidly rise above a white veil that no eye can penetrate. They are islands of naked rock in a sea of mist...

As I descend into the aerial blanket, and walk in the uneven, steep roads on the mountains, I am drenched in truth. It condenses on my skin and clothes. What I saw above no longer moves me, for this chill and damp sink in: all is depthless above these clouds!

I forget that flat world, and move on. The air I breathe becomes ever thicker with familiarity as I descend; I leave the clouds behind. I sit in a high place of no consequence. I soak it all in.

I see. I know the earth churns still; these rocks I see are not dead. Where they crowd together, they form pillars and precipices, mountains and molehills. Where they pull away, chasms and canyons are born. This soulful planet moves its mass on a whim. A master unto himself, some subterranean titan pushes and pulls, rippling and smoothing out the surface as he pleases. I laugh and I cry at his work.

The palette of color that swarms my vision is exhilarating and satisfying. What color I perceive has been flushed out and deepened by the intense bouts of rain that plague this region...

There are also rivulets and streams that roll along the side of these mountains. They roll along quite purposefully until they are swallowed up by swollen rivers. Oh rivers... they run recklessly away from their sources. They take what they will, and race on to find the lowest point in this world. In truth, I don't know where the lowest point is. I cannot see it from my perch.

I am guilty of not understanding my own hand in all this creation. This world is mine. Its form and shape. Its function and purpose. All is determined by me. And yet, I don't understand why it is what it is.

I know so little about why I do the things I do, and why I think the way I think. What I do know is based on my understanding of my “inner landscape,” if you will. But then, that understanding only goes so far... One's soul is a very hard thing to be in charge of! Where do my rivers run to? What is it that works away in the interior of my world and shapes my landscape? Why do I feel what I do? Why don't I feel what I don't?

I wonder about these things, but I don't wander down these paths of thought too far. It gets dangerously dark in those woods. I have accepted that some questions are answerless, and some answers remain eternally on the tip of the tongue, but can't be spoken. AH! How that bothers me!

But that is the nature of this landscape of mine, and try to accept it. At least there is beauty here. That comforts me.