Mountains were the first thing you saw. They were not very big, or imposing, but they were everywhere, surrounding the valley with their ever silent and patient presence. They provided a cradling cocoon; a place for birds to fly high above their peaks, for children to laugh, and for fresh air to flow into the valley like the currents of a river. And the birds, you could always see them somewhere—a dark speck in the sky making its way across the heavens or a quick flash crossing the distance from one mountain to another.
The sunset would paint the mountains like a brush does a canvas, reflecting the pink and orange hues that covered the sky and went far beyond the horizon. It left you breathless, gasping at the beauty of the world. Reminding you of the adrenaline buzzing in your veins, the excitement of being alive. Taking you out of the ordinary and saying “Here is something worth living for.” It left you wondering if maybe God exists, somewhere, somehow. And that would settle a feeling of tranquillity in your stomach, even if for a moment. Then, twilight would fall with a sense of finality, turning the sky purple and the mountains black and providing a hint of the first stars—subtle freckles on the darkening face of day. A silence would fall slowly upon the valley; children would stop playing, and would make their way home hanging on to the hands of their parents. And here, nighttime would come.
The stars would turn brighter as the sky and the mountains turned darker, until the lights of houses sprinkling the mountainsides would mimic those of the stars and confuse themselves altogether. Like candles, they would twinkle in and out of existence, silently and persistently enduring the night’s endlessness. And if a troubled insomniac would dare to look at the sky close enough, perhaps he would get lucky, and catch a wandering star falling from the heavens, away from the confines of the galaxy. Silence would get louder as the night advanced, until it would be an insult to Night herself to make any sort of noise. On the nights when it rained, the drops would fall like a hush upon the earth, urging people to sleep under its song. The clouds would cover the sky—not oppressively, but gently—like a mantle settled over a lover. And as the people slept, or thought, or avoided sleep, night gave way to day.
Dawn would thwart the silence like the cacophony of an orchestra. The sun’s rising rays would stretch over the mountains, reaching towards even the smallest of corners. And there would be light rising, lifting, advancing slowly but surely, until the stars faded and the world rejoiced once again in the richness and motion of sound. People would wake up, cars would make their way up the streets, the mountains would be filled with color and—life, there would be life once again. Or at least that is how I remember my home to be, for I have not been there for a while, nor will be, and those moments, those days, those nights exist now only as memories in my mind