Reckoning with the realization that I care. Death to nonchalant culture, death to apathy. I care. I care alot about a lot, but most selfishly about how people treat me, I am not an inanimate object. I am not a statue of a person, there is a fluid hollowness that I cradle in the term “womanhood”. A word I give breath to with the understanding of being contrived, restrained, and in some ways arrogant. I have this sensitivity to feeling alive at all times. This sensitivity can be found in my presence, I allow myself to be touched by invisible actions, the presumptions gifted by foresight. I’m unafraid of being wrong, and I hope most times to be wrong, but the fear of being right. The fear of being right is the shadowy doubt that cast itself over me and it can be mistaken for naivety. And in the quest to be proven wrong, surprised by life, delighted even- I'm forced to leave things to chance. Allowing chaos & passivity dominion . I find sustenance in instinct. It feels like passivity, but it is life, it is neuroplasticity . I’m wide open to life, where you may see a molehill- I understand the mountain. I’m not indifferent, indifference is a lack of awareness. Everything is special- I am forever transported, changed, rapidly, slowly, and all at once. Is this my socialized femininity? is this sensitivity itself? is this immaturity? is this my Darwin-theorized gift of perception? my dandyism? my birthday? the stars? a disorder? a mitochondrial relict? or is it in it’s barest simplicity- me?

My sensitivity shows me where I meet life, without question, pause, or concern. I honor it, I hone it , I fine tune it to arrive at a life that is not only bearable but sublime.