We climb mountains to see the sun, but the sun remains the same – outside our grasp.
So we tell ourselves it's the effort that counts, consoling our defeated souls of peaks we can't comprehend.
At the mountaintop, cold and hungry, we warm our hearts with sweet-nothings.
Our feet are planted on the ground yet we feel as if we've reached the top.
We forever hold on to this hope – the ideals of peaks, as we live and die racing towards the unachievable sky.
Mar 4, 2020
Mar 4, 2020 at 12:25 PM UTC
We climb mountains to see the sun, but the sun remains the same – outside our grasp.
So we tell ourselves it's the effort that counts, consoling our defeated souls of peaks we can't comprehend.
At the mountaintop, cold and hungry, we warm our hearts with sweet-nothings.
Our feet are planted on the ground yet we feel as if we've reached the top.
We forever hold on to this hope – the ideals of peaks, as we live and die racing towards the unachievable sky.