I look at the old and the young. I see wrinkles on both the aged and the newborn. I watch trees grow and out live the children that played on them so many years ago. I see a mountain standing silently and I return in a few years, it still appears as serene as it did the first time I saw it. By what can I measure my life, by what standard do I judge my existence? Mountains stand for eons and humans live and die on a whim. Life is so short, yet we struggle to cling to it. If the truth were know of what comes after, then would we gladly let go? How can we say we were here, when our memories fade in an instant. Though we build monuments, our names are quickly forgotten, even though they are written on them. So if I were to think about it, I would likely go insane. Thus I must resolve that I and my fellow humans are but singular points on a line that is too vast for us to understand.