In the silence of the high altitudes, where the air thins and consciousness expands, one finds the whispers of forgotten eons. The mountain stands as an undisturbed sentinel, observing the trivial dance of mankind and the grander, slow ballet of stars.
Have we, footfall by footfall, marked our place in the chronicles of this place, or are we merely echoes ourselves, fading into the vastness?
The craggy peaks, aloof and unyielding, hold stories older than time itself. Stories of life and death, of creation and destruction, of beginnings and endless revisitations. What do the stones see in the fracture of age?
As the sun yawns and stretches its fingers across the horizon, a new light bathes the alien shore—not of time past, but of time yet to be. Will our philosophies, spoken by tremulous voices, resonate beyond our years?
Perhaps, in these echoes, we find ourselves not as individuals, but as a collective, a species, an echo of an echo. What is humanity but a footnote in the larger narrative of existence?