Choosing that was my disrespect towards myself.

Crying, dancing, tears, happiness. Fullness, anger, sadness. With all of this, I pierce the bubble of fetishization. I’m not that person who’s always smiling, and I don’t need to freeze myself in that image. How to exist? It’s an empirical process. It stretches over time. I like to observe—it’s curious. For me, it’s an investigation. A materiality that’s not quite tangible. It’s close. Of all the sensations: may they be full. Existence, baggage, emptiness. Strange. Why don’t