the art of

one » corrections

   I dislike sitting with my legs closed, whether that be on the couch or at a table that has a cover draping from the edges, hiding the few inches between my thighs. Correction: I dislike being told that I can't sit with my legs open. There's something so comfortable about not feeling the constant pressure to push your thighs together, so no one will look at you with a glare. It's as if that's the Universe's way of telling me that my sitting position has absolutely no cosmic effect on who I am or beyond slightly irritating the person sitting across from me. Keeping your thighs tightly next to one another will keep a person, especially if it's a girl, under the radar of society—of the constant taunts and smirks. She will fall into gender-tight roles, where she is not proper if her legs are not glued together—God forbid a centimeter apart. How will she find someone to love her if her legs are not tightly pushed together? How can someone even dare to find happiness? She likes to sit with her legs crossed on the floor sometimes? She's lost it. Now, no one will see her as a civilized person. Why in the world does she do that? Maybe the Universe tells her that freedom is not defined by the width of her knees but rather by who she allows to build walls around her? No, that would be too rational.

   I dislike wearing skirts. Correction: I dislike being told that I am not 'woman' enough. My gender, something so unique about a person, is a fraction of how I identify and how I represent myself to a world that spins so slowly yet not slow enough. As if a person's clothing style scrutinizes their capability to tick off a box during the General Questions About You So We Can Label You in tests. Just because I don't wear skirts doesn't mean that my whole identity can be ripped away from me by people who are confused about themselves, who go home after throwing words across the room, who sit on their bedside and wonder if who they are right now, right this minute, is the person their younger self dreamed of.

   I dislike my weight. Correction: I dislike being told that being fat is worse than being a shallow, cold-hearted abusing human being. What's worse? Telling someone to kill themselves because they carry extra pounds on their body or shaking hands with a person who used that same hand to create dark, painful, and unforgettable bruises on a face? Even though those bruises will fade, they will never leave the memory. Even though those pounds can burn away, they will always give hope to a person. Of I can do this, not I deserve these bruises.

   I dislike lists. Correction: I dislike not appreciating the wonders around me, which fade away into the corners of the world as my life becomes rigid. Wake up. Breakfast. Run. Run more. You need it. Write. Edit. Eat. Sleep. Repeat. It's as if we are falling down a hole, and it's constant. Lists are constant. We keep falling, not knowing how to grab onto something from the walls and corners. We just follow our own bodies, letting it get deeper and deeper into the pit of borderlines and margins. Sure, there is something about lists that sends a spoonful of peace down my body. As humans, we like order; chaos creates tense spasms in our minds, till we ache and clutch our sides, praying the pain will go away. It keeps us inside the map of the world, of the known territories. It allows us to fit in with everyone else. Our creativity comes second to society.

   I dislike bubbles. Correction: I dislike the concept they bring. Bubbles, when given the opportunity, merge together and unite. But I live in a bubble. Everyone—that's seven billion people—has their own little bubble. Every time we move across the city, state, country, or even world, or when we meet someone new, our bubble gets bigger, just a tiny bit. The different nights spent crying with the bed covers over our heads, so no one will hear us sing miseries. The different days spent wandering aimlessly on the streets, wondering what will happen if that car takes the wrong turn? And so, our bubble gets bigger. Our sorrows and smiles pour inside the bubble, up to the brink, and sometimes, the bubble pops. We lose control and spiral down till our eyes can no longer cry. We've lost the capability to express all of the built-up emotions that we endure daily. In their own unique way, bubbles are beautiful. Just like how we, as individuals, are so beautiful. With our genetic mutations and crooked smiles, with our one-cheek dimple, or born with an extra finger or two, or something so different that your family hasn't seen in a long time. All uniquely and brilliantly created, sewn together like a quilt, with its imperfections as rags, that come together to form a constellation in the form of fabric.