good morning

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Every morning for the past few days, I’ve been going outside to pick flowers before the sun rises. It feels more like a heist than a peaceful pastime. Armed with a pair of scissors and wearing a dark hoodie, I slink in front of people's fences, plucking the blossoms that peek through the cracks. By the time people are leaving for work, I’m already on my way home, arms full of flowers. Once inside, I place them on my grandmother’s shrine and let them wilt away.

This morning I came across the restaurant around the corner on fire. Firefighters were sawing through the metal shutters on the front door, red lights flashing and sparks flying everywhere. An older woman, wrapped in nothing but a towel, stood there watching. I assume she lived in one of the apartments above. In contrast to the wild flames and armored men, she looked so fragile, so vulnerable—but she wasn’t afraid. She talked on her cellphone calmly, asserting herself with the firefighters when needed. Occasionally, she seemed to realize she was exposed in public, but those moments were fleeting and inconsequential. She was the only person on the scene without a weapon, yet she wielded immense power over the situation.

Vulnerability is so elusive. It's inspiring, enviable, and absolutely terrifying all at once. To be vulnerable and exist without ever getting deeply hurt feels like a fantasy. There’s always a chance someone will stab you when your arms are wide open. Lately, I’ve been thinking that the only way to find safety in vulnerability is through forgiveness. It’s hard to fully embrace yourself, and even harder when you’ve been at the center of violence. Every time I’m hurt, I’m shocked by how elaborate and calculated it was. These revelations pull me deeper into anguish, turning me into a black ooze, shapeless like the vague forms that once hurt me.

I feel the need to let go in my body. The holes in my heart are drawing lines on my face. I’m collecting memories, and they’re weighing me down when I dance. I’m ruining my body by overworking my mind. The fantasy of revenge rarely meets my expectations; justice eludes me, and my pain becomes something beyond my own. In reality, the wounds inflicted on me are my cross to bear. Those who hurt me are too hurt themselves, and onlookers only see reflections of their own beliefs and experiences. My burdens are mine alone. Eventually, I have to climb the cross and let go, no matter how much it hurts—with hundreds of soldiers watching, surrounded by flames.