You look at the mountains.
Beautiful. Majestic. Eternal.
You grab a shovel.
You start working.
To build your own mountain.
The mud is wet.
It slides down.
It flattens out.
You keep shoveling.
To pile up the mud.
Faster than it flattens.
Hard. Tiring. Not right.
What to do?
At least the sun is shining.
The pile no longer moves.
Frozen in time.
Hardened by the touch of the sun.
Now you understand.
Your ideas are clearer.
The pile of mud is higher than ever.
Still, it's a pile of mud.
Crude. Dirty. Ugly.
With no shape.
A green stem emerges from the mud.
A plant is sprouting.
Maybe some weed. Maybe a flower.
One day, you leave.
Another day, you come back.
Only to find that the pile of mud has vanished.
A hill now takes its place.
Lush. Alive. Gorgeous.
With flowers. Butterflies. Memories.