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There are some things I’d like to say. First, let me say this: the confidence to share most of the words I’ve put together stems from a serious honesty-hunt I set myself on. I opened every door I could find to every corner of my self, watering and watering to the brim; to then dive head first into what I like to call a vulnerability-embracing process of becoming more authentic, instead of hiding some of those corners with low light and locked doors. Take into account my understanding of Self as all the versions I have been and you’ll sympathize with the complexity of this endeavor. Also take into account I have always been A Person In Control, or at least thought myself to be, until realizing she’s more of a cosplay while I hid in those dry corners; always here and always hidden.

I like the word vulnerability. I used to think it’s first cousin was ‘weakness,’ but turns out it’s more closely related to strength. Not a made-up power this controlling wannabe used to chase, but a genuine inner strength to stay true to myself by paradoxically allowing the power others have over me to transpire in something other than occasional tantrums thrown around like dust in a hurricane as my insides get rambled in a dark dusty cobweb of complex emotions.

Emotions are weird. They exist in a bundle, just like the parts of the body, and the junction of many bodies. In Portuguese, Bundle translates to Bololô. From time to time, mine get so rambled that my body isn’t able to keep it in. And I cry and cry rivers and rivers without any apparent trigger, and I feel like the reason is just not fitting within myself; my body’s suddenly too small and I spill. I guess writing is a form of spilling.

How fearful it is to be seen. How much more fearful to not be. Sometimes I get scared by what I don’t understand. The nakedness of being real comes from replacing the mud with water and the web with knit, so that the interlocking loops, once confusing and frustrating, can get worn, make warm, but be easily taken off.

Sometimes whole weeks go by in which I’m my only company, and it forces me to get to know who I am in a way that wouldn’t be possible if I were constantly around others. Maybe I’d even be a different person if I spent more time with other people. One of these days, inhabiting this world of my own, I noticed I seem more accepting of the coexistence between happiness, sadness, falta, e fartura. I understand now that life, experienced by bundles of different kinds, is an endless alchemy of seeking and finding and watering and knitting. Endlessly, as long as bundles exist.