The stone nudges its way out of the forest floor, pushing and twisting and dragging itself up each micrometer until its mossy head clears the surface. It peers around without eyes for a moment, viewing the tough, needle-riddled dirt without seeing it, hearing the restless green rustling of shifting evergreens without listening, scenting the faint shadow of shattered limestone and the overpowering tang of pine sap cooking in the sunlight with no understanding of smell. But it feels the sun on its head--has felt it--a pale heat that licks at the surface, a touch new, strange and inviting.

So, it reaches for that golden ball of warmth, shifting from its earthen confines to seek it nearer. First its head, then its shoulders emerge, speckled with moss and soil and seeds that cling to edges or sneak into hidden crannies, until the stone grows green and tall--taller than the trees-- with its own spruces and pines and firs riding on its back. Still it climbs, reaching upward, and as it stretches higher, it begins to understand.

It perceives now: the veins of umber that creep through one section of forest floor and no other; the twisting knot in the trunk of one ponderosa where its fellows stand straight and tall. It hears the wind whistling over and around it though the song shushes as it wends its way through the trees. The stone smells now the tiny bubbles of clear dew trembling on the surface of stones. But most of all, it feels the sun reaching down through bark and soil and stone to the heart of everything and imbuing it with warmth. 

And so, the mountain which had begun as a stone, decides to stand as close to the sun as it can, absorbing it, perceiving its touch on all and reflecting its light in its turn.

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Hmm. This turned out very differently than I had imagined. What do you think I meant by it? It's meant to show how I feel about writing, really.