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.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s