To have a human body is a surreal experience—the physical idea of self. It is only a mental representation of who we think we are. I see it in mirrors, in shadows, in glimpses — angles I’ve learned to read but feel like I cannot fully trust. I live inside it. I feed it, dress it, stretch it, rest it. I monitor its responses. I observe its limits. I notice the way it reacts before I can name what triggered it. 

I can look at my hands as they build. I can feel my legs move beneath me, my arms bend and contract. There is no rupture here — no trauma that I can point to cleanly, no dramatic moment of separation. Just a low hum of not-quite-belonging. 

What does it mean to have a physical self that holds so much more memory than my mind?

My body knows things before my mind does. It flinches, tightens, recoils, warms — without explanation. It remembers things I’ve forgotten. It responds to voices, movement, spaces — before my mind has time to process them. 

There are moments when I feel pain or fear or nostalgia as if my body is replaying moments without me. 

Just a sudden shift in the air, a drop in the chest, an echo with no origin point.

I use my body as a tool to interact with the world as I collect memories. It holds them close — not just of joy, but of pain, loss, and love. Each feeling, each emotion, becomes a part of my physical being, even when my conscious mind doesn’t always recognize it. We cannot separate from our past because our bodies will always remember.

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After having been through SA, I am currently using my art to explore what it means to have this physical sense of self and the memories that it holds. I am exploring how it has shaped or warped my own perception.