#poetryjourney
I came here
to clear my head—
or at least…
that’s what I told myself.
The Cairngorm Mountains
don’t ask questions though—
they just stand there…
like they’ve already heard it all before.
And maybe they have.
Because up here—
everything feels older than me.
Older than my worries,
older than my mistakes,
older than the things
I can’t quite let go of.
The peaks don’t rush.
They don’t chase anything.
They just rise—
slow, stubborn, certain—
like they’ve made peace
with being exactly what they are.
And I’m walking—
boots crunching through gravel and frost,
breath hanging in the air like unfinished thoughts—
trying to figure out
how to do the same.
There’s a kind of silence up here…
but it’s not empty.
It hums.
Wind brushing past my ears
like it’s trying to say something—
like it’s been saying it
for thousands of years
and I’ve only just turned up to listen.
And then—
I swear—
I catch movement on the ridge.
Not fear.
Not danger.
Just…
something unexpected.
A man—
full kilt, wild grin,
spinning like the mountain gave him music
only he could hear.
Boots stamping,
arms wide,
laughing into the wind like it belonged to him.
And for a second—
I forget everything heavy.
Because how can you carry weight
when someone’s dancing
on the edge of the sky?
Maybe that’s the point.
Maybe the mountains aren’t just about solitude.
Maybe they’re about release.
About letting go of the version of you
that needed answers—
and becoming the one
who can just… stand there,
breathe it in,
and laugh at the sheer madness
of being alive.
Below me,
rivers carve their way through the land—
not asking permission,
not checking the map—
just moving forward
because that’s what they do.
And I realise…
maybe I’ve been trying too hard
to control the path
instead of just walking it.
Up here—
nothing fights the wind.
It bends.
It shifts.
It survives.
Even the mountains—
as solid as they seem—
are changing, slowly, quietly,
over time.
And somehow…
that doesn’t make them weaker.
It makes them eternal.
Now, I stand here—
between sky and stone,
between who I was
and who I might become—
and for the first time in a while…
I don’t feel lost.
I feel small.
I feel free.
And somewhere—
on a distant ridge—
that kilted stranger is still dancing,
like joy is the only thing worth carrying.
And maybe—
just maybe—
he’s right.
Mar 21
Mar 21, 2026 at 11:04 AM UTC
i don't consider myself much of an author
though you could call me a poet
i have a book, turns out
i guess i've been living under its illusion
but today, after three months of it being public
i held it in my hands and went through the pages
i'm not super proud, i'll admit
it's not perfect, barely anything
if i were to compare my current writing with that of the book
i'd call myself childish when i thought it could look
poetic or pass off as poetry
i'm no professional, barely perfection
but the title does say perhaps we could be anything
so here i was, reading through, found a good few
but most seemed to lack the fervor that i thought
when i penned down that thought
and once again i wondered, am i supposed to be proud of this thing?
_thing, huh._ really low of me to put it that way
when i started writing and it was a beginner's sake
no plans, thoroughly unrequired
i know many creators
ones who are artists, and they almost always mention
_“i'm not really proud of that one”_ —
the particular one that marked their beginning
but i guess the beginnings are the time capsules
that lead to more such evenings
when you finalize a draft, finalize a piece,
put it out there wondering maybe it still lacks it
but the heartbeat — of that moment when it's passed on and upon —
maybe not everyone would critique
are we ever really proud of all that we do?
do we really accept it?
then this particular vision erupted in my head
i held the book, held it in my hands
and it was out there, and anyone could peek into my head
it escalated — vibrant imagery indeed
i was left to accept that if anyone wanted,
they could have had parts of me
the specific ones inside the book
and the ones in the title
and in the words
and in the emotions that led it on
and even though it wasn't everything, not as i'd desired
maybe someone could find a piece they loved in there?
perhaps it wasn't that bad of a choice
not super proud again — but hey, _i'm a poet!_
i've been writing more, learning better, and listening loads
i think i might be onto something
like let it enfold you by charles bukowski
god, i don't know the man
not his works or of any other plans
but i do know that words stick
the meaning they carry does too
and if i say i love the book (yet to like it)
_will you read it for me too?_
May 29, 2025
May 29, 2025 at 11:13 AM UTC