A few years ago, I resolved to live – I was unsure before.

The pain of living felt overwhelming.

The pain of living after loss, almost too much to bear.
I began to dream of elderhood, a concept that felt almost mythic to me.
A mirage far and out of reach.
 
My future elderhood, with a sweet emphasis on aging and dying with dignity, wakes me up, moves me towards gratitude, and encourages me even in moments when the cozy familiarity of isolation calls my name.
 
I use storytelling to remember and reimagine my past, sharing my work across genres.

Dance was my first language, my body a canvas for expression. Writing is a newer friend, once comrade. A companion who has shown up in moments of isolation, illness and transition – when body would not, could not move.
 
Writing is a practice of courage.

I scream to the heavens, “why do I have to write and write my life. Why couldn’t I be born with stories of aliens and nymphs filling my head?” Instead, I write my archive, creating parable from my days and love.
 
I pray my work is a hand extended.
An invitation to watch a world unfold and be pulled close.
 
I hope to age connected and whole.
I hope that my hands know the Earth more and more with every year I live.
 
I hope to be of service to the ones I love.

I pray my capacity to love and be loved expands with each daily heartbreak until I break open completely and am laid back into the Earth.
 
I hope the animals make lunch of my flesh and altar of my bones.

—

breana is a bilingual Black, Trans, and disabled GRIEF ARTIST.
From Oakland and living in Albuquerque, New Mexico.