Since yesterday, I realise that the sadness I have been carrying around with me on my shoulders- feeling at once like a light gossamer shawl lifting my head to the rain and a heavy velvet cloak dragging my feet down into the mud- is transforming into sorrow. This sorrow feels more distinct, more solid; a sense of words being etched into my soul rather than passing through me in tides of tears: an epitaph. A chrysalis, cocooning my sadness and distilling it into burnished wood; matter. Underneath, bright blue butterfly wings are very slowly forming, in gentle, constant motion. I need to give these wings time to come into being. But: they are there. I can feel them.
I feel a sense of relief in giving this transformation a name, a word.
I feel less passive in the process.
If Ai Weiwei’s favourite word is ‘act’, then I feel this is my ‘act’, for now. It feels in some ways like an act of resistance: resistance in the sense of fight.