26/8/25 Jotting

Dust swirls slowly in the air, drifting upward like a silent flood, spiral.

If one does not linger long under the sun,

it is almost impossible to notice them.

The skin’s texture is magnified in the light,

every tiny grain of it breathing.

Sunlight falls upon the natural oil on the skin surface, glimmering with the faintest sheen.

The succulent in front of me, too seems to absorb greedily from the sun’s nourishment.

We often speak of “self-love.”

But what is self-love, truly?

When alone, it seems to arise naturally,

yet within love and being loved,

fear so often shadows it.

And within fear,

how does one still hold onto self-love?

I do not know.

Perhaps self-love is not meant to be a grand narrative.

perhaps it is not a perfect, universal answer.

Perhaps all I can do is this,

simply, to sit quietly in the sun,

to feel my body breathing as if she was a plant,

hungrily drawing in light and air.

And, nothing more.