To my left they shoot up and disappear into a thick blanket of clouds.
I am stopped at a sign that assures me that if I turn left, I'll find solitude.
Solitude is what I need.
The world's fist is inside my chest squeezing, wringing, compressing.
Left and Up into the canyon.
Cliffs close in on either side and disappear into the dense cloud layer as I wind my way towards solitude.
The mountains and the pines have a mass in space and time.
Their permanence in both highlights the transience of my existence.
Snowflakes gently drift around me, hardly seeming to move. Gravity itself seeming to take a moment to stop and admire their beauty.
My worries are ephemeral.
Climbing, turning, winding.
Gravity remembers itself and silently tears feathers of snow from the clouds.
I pause to sit on an embankment in the snow looking out over a shallow pond.
The feathers of snow become chunks. The clouds themselves descend, shrouding everything.
I've found solitude; an expanse of silent drifting white.
