Suddenly the questions disappear with the early morning sunlight though the sun is still two hours away the hills are beckoning we pack our backpacks and set off at a good pace i never listen to music on the trail there are so many sounds to hear aren’t there and my feet need no command today there’s no sign of any ache or any pain and most importantly my breath needs no command today breathe through the nose breathe through the nose close your mouth it doesn’t need any command and suddenly the trail opens up to meadows the like of which I’ve never seen with my eyes with these eyes and now here i am walking with these feet on them there’s no trail anywhere there are no stones no mud just green green green everywhere i can set my eyes on i want to lie down but out of nowhere flies in the sound of a flute a father and son are walking within eyesight and the father is playing a tune which i haven’t ever heard i doubt even he has it is the tune of the meadows and the mountains it’s a tune born here for him to play and me to listen to. She laughs when i say mountains but they are as alive as she is they have as many colours and when they play with the clouds you can’t make out who is teasing whom you can’t honestly pin them down everything is deceptive about them their hues sometimes they are grey and sometimes they are blue but we are trained to see greens and browns and blacks and whites but if you just look without letting the name of a colour pop up in your head sometimes they show you their outlines and their games with the clouds and the snow and sometimes just sometimes they pop up out of thin air oh there was nothing there last night was there and sometimes they just delude you they are there for you for ever and ever though far away but when you click a picture they shy away they are deceptive but in a good way just like her they are deceptively simple but never just simple. What questions could remain unanswered in a meadow stretching upto eternity not a soul in sight with the mountains surrounding you in fact the symbol of the question mark itself dies it just gets splattered with a billion brilliant photons as if in the large hadron collider not leaving a single trace of itself.
Antimatter is nothing but questions about matter and thought and being dying and being reborn as a zen gliding massive winged bird in the sky. Their grave is in the clouds that kiss me and the snow that falls gently in my palms.
Maybe someone will understand.