Rebuild 2.0

progress can come in so many forms.

“When will I stop belonging to this hungry thing inside me?”

Your body is not a thing. You do not inhabit a meat suit. Your body is an ecosystem. Your body teems with tiny life, each cell a wild and free inhabitant, each expanse of muscle bone skin hair blood water mineral landscape it's own life web, crashing microclimates in oceans of complexity.

your future self loves you. they will look through old photos of you with affection, not disgust, nor embarrassment. they wish they could tell you stories of your future, of how much you’ll change, of the people you’ll meet, of how you’ll eventually learn to accept yourself, then love yourself. they will read your diary entries and poems and favourite lyrics, heart aching, tears in their eyes. if only you knew...

Grief, I’ve learned, is really just love. It’s all the love you want to give, but cannot. All that unspent love gathers up in the corners of your eyes, the lump in your throat, and in that hollow part of your chest. Grief is just love with no place to go.

There is this sense of the deep around her, a dark twisted thing, lurking behind a fair masquerade, luring the things on land to drown, perish and drift away; there is her lips, full and burned with sun and salt; her hair that tastes of a peculiar sea salt amidst an eerie divinity; there is her skin, warmed by the sun, glistening as a reminding of waves; there is her eyes, so dark and deep, abyssal amidst beauty; there is the way she moves, clumsily, yet so elegant and graceful, enthralling; the way she sways her hips, like the sea sways a ship. There is everything about her, yet nothing of her. There is her allure and that’s it. The rest is hidden to all, peering behind the mask, ready to bite, ready to sing, ready to drown.