This pregnancy is long. It is ongoing and continuing in order to spare me its end.
For its end would signal an end I am ill prepared to endure.
The end of me. The end of all that is dear and delicate and valuable to my worth.
Not all those eyes that stare and judge and weigh my worth in success and male succession. Royalty and jewellery, property and gain. For this is meaning I do not aspire to.
I am forever gestating this immense ideal. This idea and this concept that will not escape, for as long as I hold it and warm it.
I was told it was vain, and narrow, and uninspired. Disrespected by centuries.
And yet my breasts swell at the anticipation of more. Milk overflows to feed the hungry. The tides of the moon possess me even now.
For I am fire and water and earth and air. I grow roots and become entangled in the ancient ruins.
My intact nature revealed, my essence established and clear.
This is who I am and who I want to remain.
I will forever cherish the swell that graduates me to the ages.
I will stand up for the pride of my body and the scars of my sacrifice. For it is worthy. It is all that I am and all that I ever wish to be.
A tree, a rock, a mountain.
A power not to be challenged. Only the bravest souls would dare defy my strength of purpose when it comes to my own.
I am wood, but fossil.
I am moon and earth.
I am soil and flower.
I am seed and rain.
I remain in the cycles that take me back to where I belong.
I return to the earth and I revel in its graceful embrace.
For I am free and wild, and old, and new.
I am true. Above all, true.
I am brave and calm, and loud and afraid.
But I am this. I will always be this.
This pregnancy must end.
This journey is finite.
And I end in Rhosgobel, deep within the bounds of mystery. I will build my own, and authentically disappear.
