I don’t enjoy my body sometimes. The unpredictable nature of it’s highs and lows, how demanding it can be when my mind is limitless. When I look in the mirror, I see the surface, like the surface of a lake, it is one dimensional. When I focus on the surface, I don’t appreciate the many rivered veins carrying the color to rosy pink skin. Or the bunches of nerve endings that give me sensation. I do not dwell on the cells that are communicating, bridging their barriers to allow me life. Instead I tell myself that the body is a prison. Outside the walls, there are other bodies that seem trapped in their own prisons. Inside, I wonder how the cells feel. How the plasmic burr of my blood vibrates with their own frequencies, connecting with the environment, contemplating it’s own existence.
In Biology class, watching the organisms dance under binocular vision. Bumping into the edges of petri dishes, flustered at the absence of familiarity. I begin to dream of the inside of my body. The lattice intricacy of bone marrow, the rubber cones of valves, and locking lines of my tendons. I would float around the mitochondria, watch the nucleus and it’s centrality, the importance of function. It would carry me beyond, to the smallest point, as the external world came in to be greeted by my insides. Breath carrying particles, mingling with the most vulnerable. Food being siphoned, sorted by many tactile forces. I would dream of my involvement. Counting each bone that bends, waving on a joint that accepts information, translations of languages I don’t have to think of, they just are.
When I push through the surface of the lake, through the tension that holds flat, I enter the worlds beneath. The individuality of an entity that is so overwhelmingly full of everything. Bodies of fish, bubbles of air escaping from the collapsing shells of clams, sea weed forests with slimy snail feet grasping on. It is bloom after bloom of life. My body is the lake, surface tension crossed, the depth is full.