I am a mountain. I am a self-building mountain. Where does my energy come from?
That’s the only great secret. We let that one be.  But I am a self-creating mountain. I morph and ebb. I am still and patient. I welcome you. I grow flowers and trees on my sides. Streams pour down me and carve out spaces. I sing to myself. My insides are always shifting though it’s invisible. I am against purity, but I am harmonious. I have always existed, I am already dead.

I am a starfish, I grow back the limb, the chunks that got severed. Where did the pain in our world come from?