mourning without sadness

As I write this, the day seems less consequential than usual.  My burdens are lighter, and my actions seemingly less opposed.  I’ve recently placed less emphasis on the future, divested of it.  I am small and I don’t really know how I got here; it doesn’t matter.

It seems that I am moving on from who I was.  I feel disoriented, disembodied.  Even as I am increasingly aware of my skin; my face.  It’s as if I had never been comfortable relaxing into my skin, just for the hell of it.  This is a new experience for me.

 

I feel wedded to my new state of mind, a focus on others; to the extent that my achievements don’t feel like my own but the product of a larger whole.  I would say this isn’t true, that I am responsible for my achievements, but it seems unclear to me.

 

There is resignation as well.  Whatever happened, happened; and it will not happen again.  I will never be who I was a year ago, two years ago.  Mostly for the better, possibly for worse.  It’s a slightly claustrophobic feeling – after the constant fleeting forward motion of gender transformation, stability and stillness seem restrictive.  After years of the infinite possibilities of distant horizons, they aren’t.

 

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