Bodies Bodies Bodies
I love my body, I hate my body, I adore my body, I'm proud of my body, I'm tired of my body. All these thoughts exist together and naturally, just like any other facet of my physical existence that makes me exasperated with myself. My relationship to my body is just like my penchant for stubbing my toe, it both exists and it doesn't. Maybe it is just me, but a body is just a body for me. I would rather have a relationship with my soul, with my solitude, with me.
Celebrating my body is akin to celebrating breathing, okay we could if you really want to but also it seems silly to do it for something so innately human. Loathing my body is just as bewildering to me, why would I hate something that is just there? Like nursing a grudge against a speck of dust in the afternoon sun.
Do we have to be aware of our bodies all the time, why do they even have to be separate from we ourselves? It is not my body typing this, I am typing this, my body and me are one. To splice me apart into my components, is that the right way to celebrate me? I would much rather live in a world where our bodies were as insignificant as our intestines to our celebration of self.





















