These mountains are so big and they have so much to them, hips that go and go. They have such strange shapes, the way they fold up on themselves and then cast out, like a handful of raw elements: hemlock, granite, loam. I can't stop writing about them. I love them so much. They remind me of everything.
I keep thinking about, and dreaming about, death. This is not to be dramatic or say that I have some deep wish for it; it's just on my mind, pressing close. I feel strangely about the season, but I'm not unhappy, I am not doing badly. I'm almost afraid to write that, because last year at this time, I was the least amount of okay I've ever been. What if talking about it is a reminder, like something in me hadn't noticed I was chugging along okay, and is going, "wait a second, you're supposed to be sick in the head right now." What's different this year? What's the same?
But there have been changes. I want deeply to write about this year, whereas this time last year, I couldn't bear the thought of making a year end post. I want to talk about the surprises, about learning you were wrong about some things and the growth that can foster, and I want to talk about capacity. So maybe I will.
But probably mountain posts into the foreseeable future.
And me, with my spooky fire sign eyes, I'm the scariest thing on this mountain.
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