The mountains

 There was a time when all I could draw were mountains. They speak to me and they take me out at the knees. They’re profound and prophetic and strike somewhere deeper than deep. I would draw these mountains as great heaving peaks that cut into the sky without mercy, sharp and unforgiving. And maybe I’ve lost my edge, become soft and full of weeping, but all I see are the mountains rolling. Rolling and running and so so full of unrelenting peace. Steadfast and certain. 

The sharp, extreme, harsh lines of my rage full soul of childhood are no more. They’ve softened, become more dull and easier to stomach. It sounds so sad put that way but the world has lost its great intrusive intensity. And it has become all soft lines and calm yellow light. What once I thought was a cactus waiting to prick me and draw blood, is really a tree just patiently awaiting my acknowledgement. It’s really quite simple. 

I once thought life was the horrible monster waiting around the corner, waiting to strike and swallow me whole, destroy me. It took 21 years for me to understand that nothing was out to get me. My moms been telling me that since I was 5 years old but still it took a third trip to the mountains of my dreams to get it though me head. Because I’ve been painting mountains since before I could spell my name. And I’m finally free.

You see because it took me writing my whole way though my twentieth year of life to understand that there is so much more, but there didn’t have to be and it was all a choice. And you could say that it’s all one great sick cosmic joke, but I choose to believe it’s a gift. Because the mountains are gonna walk out of my way, and I’m gonna stay free. And it’s gonna be great and glorious. It’s gonna be so so very light. 

No more great destiny weighing on my shoulders, I keep it in a box tucked under my arm. Because not great purpose or fate or destiny is gonna tell me that the mountains are always coming to step on me. I’m bigger than they are. It’s not arrogance it’s inheritance.