Mountains rise like old souls, their silence heavier than thunder, watching over generations of wind carving stories in stone.
Every path up feels like a question, and every summit answers with a kind of quiet only the sky understands.
Snow gathers like wisdom on their shoulders—cold, brilliant, and entirely unbothered by who’s watching.

There’s a confidence in this that whispers, not shouts.

Some truths wear suits, this one wears sweatpants

You just made the comment section feel like a dialogue, not a dump.