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.
I step inside the structure and remain still.
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.
I wonder how many times this posture has shaped me.
How often staying upright became more important than breathing.
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