неделя, 13 август 2017 г.

There is this safety net when you live at the same place for many years.
And not only in terms of your family and close ones being nearby, but all the mere material expressions of life. 

Knowing the streets by intuition; knowing the exact way your body moves through the matter of the city and having all your books and clothes, and mere belongings under the same roof. The way the lights above your bed flicker, the way the stray dogs near your apartment bark at night, how god-awful the sensation of heat can get in late July - early August, what sound the snow makes when it falls down early in the morning. 
It's really very simple and probably a little bit funny of me to realize it now, but: 
the only constant thing I'm going to have once I move abroad, is going to be my very own body.
Legs and hands, and fingers - for I've always measured time by the way my fingers look when I write or when I touch someone I care about, and because I've always been most afraid to see my hands getting old. My lips and my messy hair, and my nose, too straight for its own good. All the things I've loved about this body and all the things I've struggled with. The feeling of being perfectly tired when I've walked all day, the beautiful drowsiness that sets deep into my bones after I've made love. 

The body as a shelter; a center to all that awaits me. 

It's an exquisite kind of liberation. 

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