I arrive at the base of the mountain, stained by thoughts of anxious uncertainty, but she does not judge me. I walk through her golden paths, trickling my hands over her delicate flowers, as they slowly suckle the heaviness from my being. My thoughts blow through me, until there are none left, and I am alone in the fynbos. Emerald green hills glisten in the distance, with spots of honeyed pinks and silver trees. She breathes loudly. Life is in the softness of the white sandy earth and the sound of the river. The mountain is changing, burning the past and recreating with certainty.
