I’m not who I was when this all started, yet somehow it feels like I have been caught in time. I cling onto the memories from before, knowing I must not be the only one struggling with the passing of days. There have been barely any photos of me taken over nearly two years and I stare at the me I was before, happy on top of a mountain, vibrant and beaming and so so so alive. I am not her anymore. Simultaneously surpassed and diminished all that I was. I fucking crave life and touch and something indefinable. Give me adventure and mountain tops and the deep, deep ocean. I will dive in the salt water and gasp at the cold.
Will you recognize me when you see me again? I am changed forever, marked from grief and fear and a lot of laughter. White hairs bloom like spring shoots from the earth of my scalp, and I notice lines marking my face like love notes carved into trees. I always made jokes about being an old man stuck in this body, and it makes me laugh to see myself turn grey before I’m even thirty. I understand now why witches are always cackling. Still, I am here, baby faced and something new. Just hardened and cracked like ancient lava.
Please know I’m trying so hard to make this writing beautiful, not just for me, but for you. These words are a gift, the only gift I was ever really good at giving. I try to so delicately and gently place the right words together, like following the steps of a spell; a spell for the sensitive ones, the healing ones. I give a drop of my blood, catch my sweat as it drips, quickly snatch my sigh out of the air in a tiny glass vial. This spell, these words, they are for us. I try to make it beautiful, but let’s not pretend, let’s not pretty it up for once; healing can be a fucking messy undertaking.
I promise the trees will hold you. And I promise the ocean loves you. And I promise the mountains are waiting for you.