I carry my pages up the mountain.

Not the ones clean enough to be seen.

I carry the torn pages, ripped and crumpled by frustrations, marred by tears and coffee stains. With each step, I shoulder the pages that feel heavier than paper as I teach myself how to navigate the arduous path.

The further I trek, the clearer it becomes that I won’t make it to the top unscathed, but won’t the view be worth it?

My sense of peace rises with the altitude and I’m so close I can feel the breeze.
But the weight is too much to bear and I can’t take one more step.

I look at my pages, heavier than paper, and wonder why I bothered to pack them at all.

I feel the summit in my bones as they become restless.

I open my eyes to the view from where I’m standing, lovely enough, but people don’t climb mountains for “lovely.”

I release my grip and as my pages take flight with the wind, their weight releases its grip on me.

I watch them go as dawn comes for me with whispers as light as the next step I take, telling me softly that although I have come this far, my journey is just beginning.

Halie Currie