The air blows hot in my face, even though it's mid-autumn. And I decided I want to live my life like I'm writting my own book, where I am the principal character.
I long for an analog way of living, where things are felt fully instead of merely consumed; I'll stiffen my posture, take care of my hair, and alter every piece of clothing that no longer knows my shape, gathering the excess fabric left behind by the person I used to be.
Accepting the change that grew quietly inside me. Looking into the mirror and carefully pulling out every little thing that unsettles me — not to discard it, but to place it beneath a microscope, examining it with tenderness, trying to understand why this fragment of myself feels so unworthy of love. After all, if it once belonged to me, then it is still part of who I am, even after being torn from its roots.
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