Mountains, Always Mountains

There are always mountains; mountains of paperwork, of ironing, of bills, of lists, mountains to climb, mountains to conquer.

In a low valley, by the shores of a lake, I sit in the shadows of the mountains, with my feet in the water. The lake is beautiful, but it is impossible to relax and drink in it’s splendour when, all the while, with every tick of the unseen clock, these mountains are closing in.

They move surreptitiously and, each time I turn around, though they are nearer, they cease their quiet creeping.

They make the shores of the lake crack and the rocks slowly crumble.

They send ever more violent ripples across the placid surface of the water.

They un-nerve me.

But I still make no attempt to climb or conquer them; I am intrigued to see what will happen if I do not.