I write about the taste of raspberries, fragrances, the heat of the sun on my skin. The comfort of soft wool and a touch that instantly calms me. And yet I seem to be so disconnected from my body.
Every spring, as the outside temperature rises to a level tolerable to bare skin, I awake as from a frozen sleep. It surprises me every spring. And I never feel as alive as on a hot summer's day, straight after a dip in the sea, when I stand half naked on the porch and brush out my wet hair.
This year, my soul woke up with my body. I finally understood this. That I'm not just my head. That the screaming dissonance in my entire existence is my body trying to make itself heard.
I need to learn how to love this body, feel it, be patient with it. I need to really taste the raspberries, not just write about them.
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