Mountains are memories eternal. None will ever come over their remnants to ponder who were the people that once inhabited them, for there never will be any remains.
Mountains shall remain.

And still, were that to happen, travelers would think of no people at all, for mountains are not the memories of any kind but of our home. Immovable, imposing, and beautiful. Larger than the wrecks of Ozaymandias, they throw a shadow over entire civilizations, and yet we do not despair.

As a sign of unreachability, mountains have brought out that which is so intrinsic to our species – curiosity. Even in the shadows of these colossal realities that reach so high to pinnacles where the air is barely breathable, we have persevered, yet it was only with our most modern of technologies that we can look past them to greater frontiers. They were our inspiration; they were the point of worship, but never have they been a point of fear alone, they made us wonder just what may be up there beyond the clouds and azure sky.

Mountains, to me, are unlike nothing else. They are the embodiment of a solemn reminder that we are so extraordinarily tiny. There are stars in the universe that dwarf our own Sun, but in the darkness of the cosmos, we deal with sizes incomprehensible. Mountains are here with us. We can stand before them and understand our own inconsequential nature. After all, who can move a mountain? No one.

In far too many ways, mountains are an expression of the human condition, a spark to set ablaze the fires of our curiosity, an almighty representation of things larger than us, a memento mori. All will perish, and our civilizations will once be no more than dust. Perhaps those that stand the test of time will wonder still about these colossal peaks like our ancestors have and as we do now.

And even when all of us are gone, when Earth may be barren and empty, devoid of life, mountains will remain and were it possible for another life to spring, it might also wonder.