All mine actually.

I’m twenty seven years old and it wasn’t until a moment ago I realised my body is mine.

Logically I know this, my body is me and mine. It’s my property and myself. But it wasn’t until now that realisation struck. This is actually mine *points down at Hobbit toes and pokes a crooked pinky in my belly button*. I don’t have to consider others’ perceptions. I do, obviously, but I wouldn’t have to. This is all mine. I could do with it whatever I chose to. Not just what feels appropriate. Absolutely anything. I don’t need others to respond to it. They will, again obviously, but that doesn’t have to be my concern unless I make it so. If I want to I can be my own piece of independent art. I could be the self-made porcelain doll, untouched on my shelf by myself and celebrated by an audience of one.

Maybe there is a sense of detachment in the concept, but right now that is drowned by the potential empowerment such a disassociation would be. I could actually shape myself. I could actually do it for myself.

It’s all so very simple, but how come it’s taken me twenty seven years to actually understand what my body means?


~ by Ape on September 22, 2012.

2 Responses to “All mine actually.”

  1. Because we still don’t know what “my body” means. Conceptualizing it as private property might not be the best way… Denies a certain intersubectivity. Or something. I’m not sure yet, either.

    • To be honest I’m not sure even I fully do see it as private property. I think you’re right, it can’t really exist outside of the web of culture. I’m not alone in creating it, neither am I in maintaining it. Still every now and then it feels good to pretend, if only for a few moments, that it truly is mine. That I have the final say. It’s a great pick-you-up to be a little selfish and do things to/with it that are for you and you alone (and that sounds like a bad masturbation euphemism, but it wasn’t meant as such),

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