For a long time, I didn’t understand how words like “body” or “flesh” came to be. They seemed almost useless—fit only for crude jokes—just as I couldn’t grasp what a real actor truly contributes to a play.
Flesh—it’s a word you only remember when your body truly collides with life. It carries the temperature of breath, the thickness of touch. You don’t think of it until a wound opens, until cold air stings, until you realize that this thin, trembling film of skin is all that keeps your insides from spilling into the world.
In those moments, you’re no longer watching yourself from a distant, third-person view. You exist in the immediacy of sensation, an awareness too primal to name. When language falls silent, the body begins to speak—and it doesn’t use symbols or metaphors. It speaks through pain, warmth, and trembling. The flesh remembers what the mind tries to forget.