Every now and then, when the mood to be deep and meaningful strikes me, I contemplate the impermanence of it all. All that exists is born, grows, decays and dies – and as a human (frail – especially as you age, and mortal – short-lived at that) – seeing nature up close puts it all into perspective. But don’t be fooled: nature herself is not permanent. The landscape itself is written upon by forces that are both invisible, and more real than all the evidence they leave. Gravity. Erosion. The push and pull of tides, the baking of the sun, the acid of the rain, the smothering embrace of gravity, the wind blowing ravenous air that eats away at granite. A landscape is a record of a story, a story of such scope that the human can glimpse but only parts of it. It is true that I’ll be around for but a flash, compared to Mother Earth. But make no mistake, the forge of reality will yet rip the mother herself asunder, with no help from people, and with no deference to their reverence. The universe is not a very sentimental place. That is why, when beauty and magic does appear – always so very briefly – I waste a moment to indulge it, and appreciate the wonder of it, and count myself lucky I was there to witness it.