I love stone. Don't you? We forget ourselves for a moment when we stand beneath a mountain. A true experience of a mountain makes us feel small, which is right. Because we are. But we only forget for a moment, really less than a minute, and soon we cast about for a little sharp-edged rock to carve our names into the cliffside.
Once, a person lost their faculty for emotion. That turned out alright, though. He wasn't ever sad.
But it was sad. It was tragic. Because we listen to our little voices, and grind our names haphazardly into the rock, and it's really very silly to try to be immortal. Even mountains know that. And we live with these very silly voices drumming all the time in our heads, and we think that's us.
We think that those voices are us.
And that person? The tragedy is, I don't know if he ever gets to be corrected. Do mountains interrupt him? To forget ourselves for a moment beneath a mountain. Does he ever get the chance to ask: Why do we forget ourselves, anyways? Who is it that made us pause? The mountain? It didn't move. Our little voices? Ha!
It's something else. Something powerful. It shuts up your internal monologue, and in those moments, you are at your most agile, most eloquent, most true. On stage. In a sport. When you read a set of words that hold power to change your life. Does it have a name? It has many. "Soul" is only one of them.
And that person? Yes, it's sad. But ask yourself this: you've seen your mountains. They made you step back. I know they did. There was an instant that your little voices were completely, utterly hushed.
That moment happens, and it's entirely out of your control. The next moment is truly up to you.
So what do you do? Take a picture? Carve your name into a rock?