The mountain doesn’t kill you out of malice.
It kills you because you were there.
Because you were soft.
Because you believed in meaning.

You show up wrapped in layers—
nylon, steel, faith—
but underneath it, you’re skin,
wet and warm and fragile.
The mountain is not.

It is older than memory,
older than grief.
It watched the first fire,
and the last breath of men
who thought they were gods.

You don’t fall because you’re weak.
You fall because gravity doesn’t care.
Because ice doesn’t feel your hands
slipping.
Because a storm doesn’t pause
to let you decide
whether you want to live.

It takes you
without ceremony.
No music, no message.
Just a clean snap
of bone on rock,
a muffled scream
lost in wind.

And when you’re gone—
really gone—
the mountain stays the same.
Unmoved.
Untouched.
Perfect in its violence.

Someone will ask,
“Why did they climb?”
Someone will say,
“They died doing what they loved.”

No.
You didn’t die doing what you loved.
You died
doing what didn’t care if you lived.