digitalbodies

The traveler can’t remember the last time they were a traveler. More of an outline now than anything. They watch the shadows and lights go by from buses and trains, quietly witnessing every inch of this vast land, and their connections slowly wear away.

They get around during the day, smiling and slipping by and never forming a real attachment. Cordial laughs dissolve into nothingness. There hasn’t been a destination for a long time. They live to see those dark silhouettes at night, the endless blurs of houses and stores and cars that contain moments of life.

Are they living? They don’t know anymore. This feels right. Maybe other things felt right at one point but this is what they’ve chosen.

~

The doll trembles on the floor, leaning against some piece of furniture in the corner. So many things prick at its senses, but it pushes them aside. Bruises and cracks line its joints, and it’s hard not to shake as it tries to hold itself steady. Voices echo around it, and it can see people talking and smiling somewhere across the room. Occasionally one of them will glance at its greyed eyes and look in curiosity, or pity, or desire.

Its owner must be around somewhere. Tonight it’ll be hurt, or used, or whatever else its owner wants. It hopes they’ll return soon. It gets lonely when it’s left like this, but it knows that this is its purpose.

Is it living? It doesn’t know anymore. This feels right. Maybe other things felt right at one point but this is what it’s chosen.

~

The girl sighs as she exhales under flickering neon, and the smoke is tinted red by the restaurant lights. The parking lot is alone after closing time, and all that's left is cracked pavement and weeds.

Things were fine today. Work was a good pace. Her boss has been talking about giving her a raise. She’s going to go somewhere with some friends tomorrow.

She’s been doing everything right. She goes to sleep on time. She eats three meals a day. She stays ahead on work. She maintains a good social sphere. She moves in autopilot, a pervasive hollowness growing in her chest. She thought if she did this long enough, she’d find her purpose. Met without answers, she metastasizes, carried forward by momentum, dreaming about the other shapes she could’ve taken. Shapes that chose the way they were broken.

Is she living? She doesn’t know anymore. This feels right. Maybe other things felt right at one point but this is what she’s chosen.

Sites from my childhood have been coming back recently, a steady drip feed of blurry scenes and disorientation. I’m unsure what brought this on; with the amount of development I feel like I’m going through nowadays, perhaps my subconscious saw fit to remind me of how weak and incompetent I felt back then. This used to eat away at me in the past, a feeling of dread that deep down I was still just a scared stupid child despite everything. Nowadays, I just want to give my younger self a hug and tell them they’re okay. Things can no longer hurt us so easily.

Amidst all the fragments lately, a memory found its way back to me. Too many of the details are lost to time, but I know that I'm eleven years old. I'm in Taiwan; it’s one of the two times I’ll be able to return to my extended family and heritage. My dad is taking me to visit his grandmother’s apartment. She’s almost a hundred years old, and likely to die before I can see her again, but my childhood self won’t realize this until years later.

The streets on the way are warm and earth-toned, filled with more street stalls than I’ve seen in my life. Noise comes from everywhere, scooter engines and rapid-fire Mandarin and occasionally a small cat on the street. This is somewhat overwhelming to me but it feels strangely familiar despite growing up in America. Something deep in my bones is giving me a hug.

I forget how many flights of stairs we climb to reach her apartment. Inside, the walls look old but not dirty, worn in color without any stains. The air is slightly cool and musty. I remember a sweet medicinal scent, dried berries and spices, but it’s blurry whether I inserted this retroactively, something my mind preferred to the smell of sterile disinfectant.

My great-grandmother lays on the bed, curled up on her side. I see her wearing a white floral dress; another detail I’m unsure if I slipped in over time. My dad talks to her in careful Mandarin. I can’t remember any of what he said, and I'm not sure if this was because of my younger self’s disinterest or because he spoke too softly. Regardless, it seems fitting that his words stay between him and her. My dad hands me his phone and tells me I can play games on it as long as I stay quiet. I’m happy to oblige, and I sit at the foot of the bed, building a small roller coaster out of digital blocks.

I lose track of time. Eventually my dad calls me over. He says my great-grandmother wants to hold me. She rolls over, now laying on her back. Even then, I can tell that this is important. I scoot towards her. I maneuver myself over carefully, and I gently hold myself above her, suddenly aware of how fragile and small she seems. All that age and wisdom, condensed elegantly into such a tiny vessel.

I don’t weigh much, but I take my time, making sure not to set too much of my body on her. She wraps her arms around me, and it feels like I’ve entered a state of hypersensitivity, feeling every inch of her touch. She whispers into my ear for a length I can’t remember, and I wish I could make out any of her words but I can’t. She’s not mumbling. Every word sounds sharp yet soft, beautiful knives made of wind. I don’t comprehend any of it.

Eventually she lets go, and I sit up. My dad tells me she said she wanted to take me to a noodle shop next time I visit. I say that sounds nice. I wish I had looked at her face back then, to see if she understood my words despite them being in English, but I don’t. The moment has passed. My dad tells me I can go back to the foot of the bed. I keep working on my rollercoaster, while they finish talking in soft tones. He tells me we’re leaving. When we’re walking on the warm streets again, my dad turns to me. He says he’s proud of me. It’s one of the few times I remember him saying this.

~

In the years following, many things will happen. I’ll learn how bad my dad’s problems can get, and the resulting bruises won’t heal for a long time. I’ll also learn how much my great-grandmother meant to him. My mother tells me how he was raised by her where his parents neglected him.

When I’m in high school, we get a call that my great-grandmother is dying. My dad tries to book a plane ticket, but she’s gone before he can even board. Our family puts him on the phone with her before she passes, and her family in Taiwan tells him that she reacted to his voice.

When I think about that day, the harsh emotional noise that accompanies most of my childhood memories isn’t as present. I can remember my grandmother without thinking of the others I’ve lost. I can remember my dad telling me he’s proud without the flood of everything else he did crashing down upon me. When the noise is gone, and there’s no pressure to form a conclusion for the pain, there's only a thought in my mind.

I hope they found peace.

The winter cold has begun to set in, and I find myself filled with longing once again. There’s something about the later months that stirs this overwhelming feeling in me. When the summer and spring are around, I can lose myself in the waking moments. I can stretch my limbs out on the floor, feeling the heat tickle the skin of my toes, and everything feels so sublime. Just a simple walk to the store feels rejuvenating, and the sunlight fills me with a sense of love and connection to all of creation.

Now it’s dark before I know it, and heating prices are still going up so the apartment is perpetually chilly. When I take a smoke break at my kitchen job, I can barely see past the neighboring buildings. Everything feels so closed in, and we all hide in the boxes we’ve built for ourselves. This feeling isn’t negative, necessarily. I still feel joy and wonder, and I still try to be kind to others. The quiet streets filled with snow have their own beauty, if you can see it. There’s just a sense of melancholy tinging it all.

I find myself dreaming of being in a relationship again, of the excitement in getting to know each other and first dates. But I’m not looking for love; I’m open to it but I don’t crave it. I don’t feel lonely either; I spend time with my friends most days. There’s just...a sense of isolation, even when I’m among loved ones. The absence of sunlight makes it physically apparent, the boundary between your life and the rest of the world. Loved ones are lovely, but when someone becomes that close, they enter your box. They’re no longer a part of the world at large.

I haven’t made a new connection in a long time, and there’s a feeling that I’ve ceased to exist outside of my box. I’ve been longing to meet someone again, for the early stages of a relationship. I want to get to know someone, to marvel at the beauty of a life that existed outside of me until now. My last date was several months ago, with a girl that I had been crushing on for a long time. We’ve drifted apart since, but I enjoyed the days we spent together. It’s still beautiful to me, that I got to know such an interesting person, and that we got to share a moment of intimacy. I remember holding her hand and tracing the events that had brought us to that one night, frozen in time.