My tummy doesn’t have to be cute. It holds my internal organs. My thighs don’t have to “crush men’s skulls”. I use them to carry myself. My stretch marks don’t have to be tiger stripes I earned. They came when I grew.
Stop.
feeling this
This!
I feel like even body positivity is too focused on, like, the appearance of the body. I know I became a whole lot happier with my body when I started thinking of it less in terms of how it looked (to me or anyone else) and realized, that, like…
When I feel cool breeze on my skin on a really hot day, my body did that for me.
When I step into a bath after a hike, and my muscles ache, but in a good way, and the steam all around me makes me feel like a flower blooming, my body did that for me.
And the hike before it, and standing on a large rock breathing the raw winter air seeing the power of the half-frozen river. That too.
When I’ve had a plate of pasta puttanesca, and I chopped and sauteed the ingredients and now I’m full-but-not-uncomfortable, and warm all over, and perfectly content, my body did that for me.
My body doesn’t have to look awesome to be awesome. It’s awesome because it’s where I live.
“the old gods are dead” says a man, bitter pride and mockery in his voice “if they were even alive at all”
the next time he oversleeps and hurries to work, he cannot find his keys – he had a habit of forgetting where he put them, but they would suddenly turn up somewhere. this time, they’re nowhere to be found.
he’s one coin short for the parking meter – and this time he doesn’t find any on the ground, even though usually he was lucky enough to find exactly what he needed.
he buys flowers for his wife and they wither and wilt before he manages to get home, dried petals and dead leaves in his hand.
the neighbour’s dog stopped wagging his tail at him, the cat doesn’t let him pet her. they’re unsure, wary.
when he lies awake at night, fighting his thoughts, the sleep doesn’t want to come. and when he sleeps, he doesn’t dream anymore.
when he sits alone in the dark, the night is not comforting anymore, not calming. the darkness is empty and lonely – threatening even.
there is no fire in his soul when he hears his favourite song, no will or need to dance. food doesn’t bring him joy anymore, nor drink. the passion is gone.
when he goes into the forest, the path slithers and knots, and he can’t find his way. the trees, his old friends, are suddenly indifferent. he’s lost in the woods for the first time in his life.
“for the second time” he hears a voice “you were six then, a lost crying boy. we were there to comfort you. not asleep, not dead. and not blind or deaf” the gods whisper. “are you so sure that we’re gone now?”
the man apologizes, struggling to fight his tears. he truly is sorry, and the gods listen. they’re old, after all, and know all the human vices and weaknesses – and know how to forgive when they so desire.
But when am I gonna get a letter from my long lost relative saying that I’ve inherited a farm in a small artsy town where I’ll fall in love with a beautiful girl and help save the harvest goddess???
Marshmellowmilktea 