“You are more than you’re body.” The chorus of self-love is sung over and over and it is ringing in my ears. Although I have always accepted this to be true in the philosophical sense, the more I focus on my body, how I treat it and how it treats “me”; the more this statement falls flat.
This fleshy vessel with an excess of mad curly hair and stooped shoulders, these fingers and toes: this is my tool to recieve, give and experience all that is around me. From the moment of my birth it has communicated and continues to do so. Even the thoughts passing through to my fingers as I type this are the electric firings of neurons.
The words I choose, the faces I kiss, the songs that make me cry, the jokes I laugh at, they are all the sum of the math that is mysteriously taking place within my skin.
The smell of coffee would not delight me if it wasn’t for my nose reminding my tongue of it’s pleasure. I wouldn’t reach to hold a hand if my heart didn’t race and tell my fingers to stretch for someone else’s.
My body is a language constantly spoken, with new words everyday. This is what defines me. I can never be more than my body, but my body is much more than what is easily perceived or defined. It is the physical receptacle for knowledge of this world. It is all I have, all I will ever have. I don’t desire to be “more than just my body,” my body is more than enough.