She was writing under a candle light at bar located in the basement of an inactive school. She had never felt so content- almost to the point of tears. Everything was okay, and “okay” was exceptional coming from her previous journeys.
She’s sitting at a dimly lit, hidden corner table while drinking moonshine and writing about how you can’t see the mountains when it snows. Something about this concept struck her, so she was writing to decipher its substance: Loneliness? Mystery? The unknown?
Truth be told, she wasn’t sitting in this bar drinking moonshine (for the first time) for no reason. She was there to listen to someone specific play guitar and sing while she wrote. His voice reminded her of the mountains; pronounced and inviting.
A woman, about the same age, came and sat down with her. They both shared their infatuation and awe over the singer before the woman revealed that they had been together for a while now.
The conversation fell silent.
The singer’s voice now sounded distant and melancholy- and so became the mountains.
“What are you writing about?”
“How I can’t see the mountains when it snows.”