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.