Nakedness

There is physically nothing to weigh me down. The only thing hanging around me is fear of judgement. Not judgement of the way I look, because at this point I think I’m pretty healthily in love with my body. The judgement I fear would be for showing my body in the first place. It’s not something people are used to. We cover ourselves, so I cover myself so as not to offend anyone. Or overexcite.

It’s funny how much fuss we put into disguising the way we look. Makeup. Clothes. Our bodies, our nakedness, the way we actually look, hold allure and a twisted sense of power for as long as we hide them. “People like some mystery.” As soon as the cover is gone, we realize how normal and unspectacular everything is. Not that bodies don’t hold their own magic. But the illusion is gone, and it seems that nowadays, perceived value diminishes with illusion. The only way to hold value to myself is by keeping myself hidden.

But it feels stupid sometimes. This skin I’m in, is it who I am? When people say, “it’s what’s inside that counts,” they aren’t talking about the muscles and ligaments. They’re talking about the mind, the soul. So which is more important? When I come back from the shower, struggling to dry off and simultaneously keep from offending my roommates, it seems like too much value is being given to the sac that contains my soul.

“Do you mind if I’m just naked?” I ask.
“No,” says everyone else.
“I love being naked, too!” says one girl.

Poa. My towel can drop, and I can find lotion and clothes at ease.
I’m exposed. I’m happy. In a way, I’m free.

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