Looking at old pictures the other night reminded me (not that I needed reminding, though) of when I, to put this bluntly, ate less and less, exercised more and more, and got damn skinny. This was mostly during 2007 and a little bit into 2008. At the time I had no idea how thin I actually was, despite the fact that all of my clothes fit baggy and the veins in my arms were incredibly noticeable and enviable by needle users. Even after getting better (better as in healthier, heavier, and a little less obsessive), I still couldn't see what so many other people saw during that time-- that I was sick. I thought I looked great in those pictures and would get depressed that I couldn't fit into those teeny jeans anymore. Ah who cares if I now had a calmer, more peaceful mind that could actually think and be rational? Who cares if my skin regained color and my ass became an ass again (asses are good things, by the way)? But now I am beginning to see my bag-of-bones self as a separate entity. I don't know who that girl is and oh she looks so sad. Her head is too big for her body and her cheeks look sunken in. I want to simultaneously slap and hug her. But that doesn't mean I don't catch myself feeling jealous. Jealous of her concave stomach, her jutting hip bones, her knobby knees. Her lightness, her purity. Because she seems so ethereal. And she is. She is not quite touching the ground, she disappears silently, she has the "supernal happiness of a quiet death." It's these moments of awe and fascination that are more dangerous than anything else.
Look at these knees and these twig legs! But please overlook the outfit.