I decided to take a short break from coding to document my retreat in the mountains. I just accepted my offer from Pavlok, a company that embraces change as its mantra.

Before the chaos of real life resumes, I would like to pause for a moment in time and transport you here to Montana - my storied past here is a dichotomy of change and my resistance to it.

The silence here is deafening. You often hear the cliche term describing the absence of silence. But you haven’t truly experienced silence until you are almost a hundred miles away from the nearest cities, nestled into the mountains, cradled in history from inhabitant to inhabitant.

This is a silence of three parts. The first type of silence is obvious. The mountains lack the heartbeat of civilization or outside noise of any sort. The kind of absence where your ears start ringing and you can hear your blood pumping to fill it in.

The second silence is one you have to strain to hear. It is the muted pitter patter of rain on the roof and the pattern of my fingers lightly touching the keyboard. Besides my computer, the only other reminder of technology is a refridgerator humming lightly in the kitchen. Faint sounds like these only serve to remind you of the isolation.

The last silence is intangable. It is the silence that is haunting and everpresent. Of change and decay. My first memories of this place were vibrant and curious. I had no concept of nature reclaiming its rightful ownership.

Each year I visit, I am reminded that the cabin, lakes, trails, and all human establishments are being eaten away little by little. The land changes hands and the people close to me, attached to it like I am erode from its history like wood eaten by mould.

I am what is left. This is my silence.