Molded Metamorphosis

I did not mean to self-sabotage. I did not intend to cleanse my life of everything that is good. I did not realize you don’t feel the same, but I guess I am to blame. You are still here, but I am not. The reflections that stare back at me through the mirror lack the density of character that I once had. I keep looking to find a resemblance of the girl I once was, but she is nowhere to be found. Just a jaded, less likely version of myself that I don't recognize. 

As I examine myself, a strange sensation cascades through my body, a weirdness that feels like semen poisoning my femininity from my cunt to my throat. The smell of it seeps from my pores, perspiring out of me, dewing on my skin, and beginning to mold. A mold that aims to please others and shield me from the turmoils of connection. I keep picking at it, only to reveal the barest layer of new skin underneath. Yet, it keeps growing, as the sweat solidifies into a fresh layer of mold. This mold becomes my new skin, enveloping me in invisible shades of green and blue. It is a state of aging that the seasons reaffirm, but that I vehemently deny. 

Negating the inevitability of growth prohibits my own. Yet, the curiosity of it all whispers to me. I begin to itch at my skin. It peels off like a fresh scab, revealing raw, supple skin. My skin. The peeling of it brings a sense of grief, like the loss of religion. My religion. My cadence of life is being ripped from me like a child. Innocence is lost once again, and black fills my veins. 

I can still feel the remnants of the mold itching at me, waiting to grow again. The shades of green and blue turn to the beige of my original skin, but I remain the same. A patchwork of old and new, each layer exposed and raw. I look at my reflection, my beautiful features staring back at me unrecognizably. Where did that girl go? My eyes, though familiar, carry a depth of experiences I am only beginning to understand. The mold, once a symbol of decay, now feels like a protective layer that was shed to reveal something purer.  

I go to my room to decay in peace, but an unwarranted calling piques my interest. A camera. Black and gray, the lens extends loftily as I peer through it. The world appears with color for the first time in months. I quickly step to the window to capture the pouring rain. The dew of it sticks onto my window as the droplets shower from the sky as if God is spitting on us. I become entranced with this new found familiarity in photography. Each picture is like an abduction of time that is past, present, and future. Nothing and everything all at once. 

The camera becomes more than a tool; it is a lifeline, a way to frame my fractured existence. The dew on the window, the rain cascading from the sky—it all transforms into a visual symphony that contrasts starkly with the internal chaos I feel. Each frame is a moment suspended, an echo of a feeling that words alone cannot convey. As I delve deeper into photography, I discover a new dimension of self-expression. Each picture I take becomes a record of my evolving narrative. I capture the intricate patterns of rain against the window, the interplay of light and shadow that mirrors my internal state. Photography allows me to freeze these moments of transition, to hold them in my hands and examine them with a new perspective. Each click of the shutter is a testament to my attempt to make sense of the changes within me.

 The black in my veins represents a strange vitality pulsing through me. The green and blue hues, though faded, linger at the edges of my consciousness, symbols of the past that have shaped me. But these pictures reveal something more that I am reveling in. Grieving myself, I am lost and in doubt of my newly accustomed body. I take captive more milliseconds of time, capturing myself. The photographs capture more than just my physical form; they document the story of change, the evolution of my identity. The images are a visual diary of a soul in transition, each photograph a fragment of a larger story.

As I navigate this metamorphosis, questioning my identity, the black, green, and blue become more than just colors–they are a tapestry of my existence, woven with pain, growth, and acceptance. What is it if not growth when you lose yourself? Perhaps deniability is no longer plausible when the shedding begins. 

In the chamber of my solitude, aging, dying, and rebirth all facilitate together in this new form I will inhabit for the time being. The camera becomes a companion in this process, a tool that helps me understand and accept the changes. Through the lens, I see not just what I have become but also what I am becoming. It is my capacity to adapt that I no longer fear. I am a living mosaic of past, present, and future, fated in the certainty of change. Photography, with its power to capture fleeting moments, helps me reconcile with the ever-shifting landscape of my identity. It is my capacity to adapt that I no longer fear. 

As I continue to explore this new form, I find solace in the photographs I take, each one a testament to my ongoing journey. The camera, once a mere object, has become a symbol of clarity and understanding. In the snapshots of rain and reflections, I find fragments of myself, captured in the ebb and flow of time. The process of photographing my world helps me piece together the puzzle of my existence, revealing a mosaic of past experiences and future possibilities. Through this lens, I am learning to see beauty in transformation and find acceptance in the continuous evolution of my being. I am a living mosaic of past, present, and future, fated in the certainty of change.