She is not rising, I am not still

I came to the mountain to find my name. To hear it spoken
in the resolute tones of the land. I came to find my name in the
grasses of the tundra, as if offered up by the very motions of the
plates below. The word is no secret, but I have never heard it
spoken so far from my home and my family. I sought out the mountain
to remind me of the beginning of all things, and of the rising of
the sun. In the Athabaskan language, Denali means "the Great One."
This was where I searched, but she is not rising.

I am not still. Even as I sit here, not a muscle twitching, my blood
continues to slither throughout my body and
my cells swim freely in their own liquid atmospheres.
I want to be a better man. I want to function more efficiently.
My mind, my body, and my soul should all work as one.
But there is a problem, because the soul is evidenced only
through its absence, as in: "you ain't got no soul" or its practical
application, such as the soulful voice of Nneena Freelon.
As I search through years of cast-off emotions, there
is no way to keep the information organized, no way
to halt my ebb and flow.

When I leave the mountain, empty handed regardless of the outcome
of my search, I will guard my name for the rest of my days.
I will also hold the mountain as a sacred thing. She is the conjurer of
my destiny, the bearer of my compass. We are all the pioneers of our
own lives, but for every victory and defeat for the rest of my days
I will have the memory of this journey. For each face I kiss and each
hand I hold I will know that it was my return from the mountain and
my time as her witness that made the taste sweet and the gesture
genuine. When I first came here I was like a child who believed
Denali was growing right before me and that I was holding my ground
against the breaking waves of life, but I was wrong.
She is not rising, I am not still.