“…there’s always going to be another mountain.”
How peculiar it is to know that there is always going to be another mountain in your way just when the taste of triumph of crossing the first, is merged into the blossoming buds of your tongue and the stench of blood and blisters is on your heels. How strange to think of brightness and moors under a dark sky with no stars or the moon; to lie in a dark room and think of running barefoot over the silky grass and let your hair mate with the breeze and get pregnant with babies of serenity that give you no pain. To let them outgrow you until you become them. To think of huge hills with natures seductive breath hovering over them while you stay in a box with a noisy motor trying to fake the wind outside. To think of the moonlight as the fluorescent bulb burns and bleeds energy to provide worldly visibility. To think of a pen in your heart that scratches its valves to write as you type into an awful machine that pops your eyes dry. To lay awake and insomniac and restless into the depths of night and yet not stop to fill yourself body and soul through its bosom even if you have no capacity in you. To do it, by welcoming the feeling of bursting altogether. To think in a diseased body that inhaling and exhaling would eventually cure it.
I suppose, the key is really in the moment; of sorrow or joy. The key to the lock you call yourself.
Isn’t it all so peculiar or pathetic or is it beautiful?
By Aaliyah Ahmad, for the Trans Solidarity Fundraiser