essay.

Hello. It's been awhile, as usual.

Can I ask for a permission to be more vulnerable today? If not, don't scroll down.

If yes, then let me do this short photo essay with a few sentimental sentences/paragraphs that shows how even with light basking into a room in Bali that I got to stay in for free, still, I did question my existence and values just like how I always did back home. Just like how I always did back in the waterfront stony seatings alongside the river at Chelsea Piers. It's just that somehow on the morning of 2nd of January, I got enough sanity and energy to take my camera and document this 'routine'.

Hands.

Have you ever seen those movies when the first thing people do when they transform into something, they always check their hands, move them around, and all that?

I stare at my hands, most of the time while laying on my back and raising them up. Checking the fingers --still got ten of those. Checking the shape, of how it doesn't look as dainty as other women's. Checking the nails, which I considered as brand new due to stopping my longtime habit of biting them around eleven months ago.

What would I be without these hands?
How can I still feel so worthless and useless when I still got these hands?
What am I without these veins, lines, fats and muscles that wrap themselves around my bones?
And how can I still be so mean to them, for being there for me, for proving that existence can always be proven when I look at them?

Catching light with these hands, manually, combined with my eyes, and a camera that I barely can hold properly, are these all supposed to be enough to make me feel at least a bit of feeling of being allowed to accept --and later, to love --myself?

With this self-centeredness, I was thrown into chaos. "You are one ugly hell of a human being," I heard some of those abstract voices inside my head telling me as I document all of this. Yet then there's those who said "Wow, that's not bad. You still got that thing you lost inside of you a long time ago."

The battle starts.

I tried to catch those 'not bad' abstract voices to lead me out of the cave of questions, guilt, and assumptions. I've held my bladder for about a few minutes or so. I wanted to get out of the bed, get of of the room, and start my day. To start my day. How simple is that?

And I figuratively bled, scarred, scabbed.

But scars seems to be the double-edged swords that I kept with me every time I got out of each battle. I feel like I was punished properly, yet disappointed for not being able to protect myself today. Sometimes I forgot my shield on purpose, sometimes I just let the battle not happen at all and white flagged all of my body to the sacrificial table; the bed that I will have to stay in for the next eighteen hours or so.

In the end, we all have to get out of bed.

And get dragged, and do things, and try and try and try and try again.
The fucking game of life for the human that rarely photosynthesizes, even when she needs to.