cynosure

Hi.

I’m me.

I’m 5′ 5″, or 165 centimeters. I was, and still am, too short to model, though once upon a time I actually had such a desire. (Nowadays I’m on the other side of the camera, capturing the beauty of others instead.)

I haven’t weighed myself since summer 2007. I don’t even remember how much I weighed back then. Frankly, I don’t care.

I used to cut off the size labels on most of the clothing I wear, but I still remember them. One of my strapless dresses is size large. And a year after I got it and cut off the tag, I really don’t care at all. It’s a versatile dress and the straplessness suits my shoulders well.

I have short legs and wide hips. I love my hips. I am bottom-heavy.

I have stretchmarks and cellulite on my thighs and hips. I have stretchmarks on my arms, and my arms are soft and padded. My cellulite is proof that I am woman; I would never want to hide it. I am soft all over; My softness is my womanhood.

I have deep creases in my stomach where my tummy divides into rolls.

I have broad, broad shoulders.

I never shave… anything. My armpits only recently started growing thick, curly hair. My legs have been hairy for years. They’re also covered with scars from mosquito bites.

I have a dent in my jaw from a fall last summer. I have a pimple scar between my eyes. I have an overbite.

I never wear makeup. I wore more makeup when I was 10, trying too hard to grow up, than I do now.

I went to eat dumplings over last summer, and my parents’ friend asked if I liked to eat them frequently. The answer was yes; and her response was “No wonder she’s so fat.” I shrugged it off and laughed and didn’t care at all, and kept on eating those delicious dumplings.

This is me.

I know I am beautiful, and I love myself.

This is me. The cellulite on my thighs, the stretchmarks on my hips.

For anyone who’s ever loved anyone in any way… this is for you.

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I read writing in books, in essays and in articles.

I read the best writing in life, in anonymous leafs tucked in between photo albums.

In the words you accidentally leave behind.

I’m reading. I’m here. I’m paying attention.

I care.

Happiness and tranquility arise from concentration.

Frustration and worries arise from desire.

It is our own thoughts that lead us into trouble,

not other people.

—

This is Mai.

Mai goes to school.
Mai manages a mammoth workload.
Mai has several jobs.

Mai never seems to procrastinate. I admire Mai.

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Aimlessly staring in the middle of the day, it occurred to me, mid-sentence in horror: I’m probably bored.

I used to say I never got bored because I always had so many things to do, read, and watch, but the obvious is that just because you have a long to-do list doesn’t mean you want to do any of what’s listed, nor does it shield you from ennui.

I want to be inspired. I want to fail. I want to keep picking myself up. I really, really want to grow, to challenge myself.

The thing is, I always know I can be doing better.

Something to work towards in February: Evolve creativity.

—

It seems that cold is inspiring to ones who have never braved a real winter. And also to ones who have.

Maybe I’ll live somewhere freezing for a while and learn how to do differently.

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67EBCK6G74ZE (ignore this)

—

A certain someone caused the accidental sudden shutoff of my computer twice recently, leading me to lose much of what I was working on.

And I didn’t get mad. I easily forgave him.

Which was surprising, even to me. In the past, if someone (or a blackout) caused me to lose my work, I’d be ranting for hours. Maybe even days.

I’ve grown up a little, and no longer throw myself into a deadly rage at actions of a loved one that, in reality, are insignificant– and, accidental or not, unintentional. I found absolutely no point in getting mad, starting a fight, or yelling at said loved one for unplugging the wrong cord. It would not have changed anything; it would not have brought my work back.

Aside from releasing myself from the monster of anger and wrath, losing what I’d been working on reminded me of last summer, when my external hard drive crashed. Back then, I actually put most of my files on the external instead of my main computer, including some 30 or 40 thousand of the photos I’d taken in my entire (digital photography) life. Any song, poem, or image (I once spent days saving images of fandoms I liked!) I collected over 8 years. And all my writing– which was the hardest for me to lose, since I didn’t post most of it anywhere.

Losing all that (digital) evidence of memories, of the past, of my life, was hard. I was extremely depressed for a week or so. I felt like everything was crashing down at me at once– the absence of my loved ones that July, my complete isolation from others, the loss of what seemed like everything (I used to say that in case of a fire, I’d save my computer first!) to me.

And then I realized I simply had to accept it. Crying about it wasn’t going to make anything come back. Feeling terrible wasn’t going to change anything. I had lost something important– fine. I had to accept it as something that happened, and let go.

And I moved on.

Since then, I’ve learned not to get attached to anything. Impermanence is unavoidable, and everything is mortal. I appreciate what I have now, be it a relationship, a squabble with family, food to eat, the kindness of a stranger, even love. But I know none of this may stay through the night, and that makes me even more grateful and happy for this life.