When I think about you, I see a bridge.
Wrought iron, strong, mechanical, stretching out and joining two cliffs together.
Messages race up and down my spine like commuters on their way to work, and often I worry that they are missing the view.
When you do something enough you get used to it, numb to it. Part of the routine. I feel that way about you sometimes.
You test me and challenge me in ways that I cannot fathom, physically and mentally, and you gave me an insight into a battle raging on underneath my skin.
Teeth gritted. Arms burning. Stomach dropping down in exhaustion.
Wasting our time and yours.
Why aren’t you stronger? Why is this so difficult for you? They find it easy.
Twisting, screaming iron, wrenching and pulling and burning.
I bought into this rhetoric for too long.
I choose to see you as progression. As a viewing point all on your own, not something I need to cross to get from A to B to C around the corner and back again. Not something that fades into the background of it’s own scenery, gently passed over by the sleeping eye.
I acknowledge my journey and my difficulties. The things I find hard are not markers of an unsuccessful voyage but an incline that I can pedal and reach the top of; each hill getting smaller as I ride.
Chaturanga, I want to thank you for highlighting when I am being hardest on my self. For shedding light on me when I am being my most unlovable and showing me that even then, especially then, is when I need to give myself love the most.
Transformation isn’t easy. Forging steel into girders and arches isn’t done through passivity and inaction, but through fire and discipline. I will return to you again today, and tomorrow, until I stop seeing you for your destination but for your journey.