At the top of the switchbacks, where the mountain ridge peaks and the valleys spread in three directions, Big Sky making a name for itself without even trying, stood a lone picnic table. I climbed the last incline, through a sea of gold, long grass waving in the wind. Sat on the picnic table and looked out over the valley, searching for answers among the rolling hills, the cast fields, the cars in miniature making their way across the highway.
It's always in silence that the answers come. I saw the core of what it is to be human, the core of what it is to be me, and how the two don't seem to intersect as much as they should.
The insight didn't seem so hard to swallow, more like getting glasses after the world was blurry for years. Like a psychic only telling you things you already know.
I took my core back down the mountainside. Made my way back to the little cabin in the valley. Sat in silence, holding the core in the palm of my hand,
and wondering where it goes now.
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