Each move to a new place meant carrying something heavier with me.
Not objects, but a weight that stayed close to the body.
Cement instead of belongings. Memory instead of luggage.
Not objects, but a weight that stayed close to the body.
Cement instead of belongings. Memory instead of luggage.
I step inside the structure and remain still.
Nothing touches me, yet the pressure is immediate.
Breath becomes shallow. Time slows down.
Nothing touches me, yet the pressure is immediate.
Breath becomes shallow. Time slows down.
I learned to stand like this for a long time.
To adjust my body. To stay quiet.
To hold myself together without showing strain.
To adjust my body. To stay quiet.
To hold myself together without showing strain.
I wonder how many times this posture has shaped me.
How often staying upright became more important than breathing.
How often staying upright became more important than breathing.