Existence is suffocating, death must be peaceful breath. I have had many moments of full-bodied bliss where my senses encapsulated the dimensions of beauty in ways my mind could never conceive of on their own. When I have felt connected to another in a way that is both comforting and terrifying. Where a place or a piece of art has pulled at the filaments to pull together a torn piece of me. Where my body felt firmly planted upon the soil and yet weightless as I floated through layers of my dreams. But if you were to ask me to recall a period of my life when I was happy, I would tell you none. For my life has been nothing but gripping. My mother said I was a difficult birth. I imagine myself even then, gripping to avoid what awaited me outside of the womb. I have been gripping upon the rocks, trying to stop the bleeding from all the sharp edges. Fighting predators, exhaustion, starvation and all the while silently screaming as my foot dangles off the edge in attempts to keep my footing as I pull myself up again and again. Each time I finally climb the summit of the mountain; I only choke down the air long enough to see that the peaks are endless and there is so much more to go. And I am tired. Exhaustion now has its grip on me. Starvation claws at my chest and the predator is now my own self.