Matcha

As the fear lifted, I felt the warm glow of the fat still left on my thighs and triceps. I felt grateful for my body and its ability to carry me through the last wave of the invisible illness.

I overhear the young girl, talking about how she was still recovering from the flu, as I gaze into the mirror at my dehydrated, aging thin face. I wonder if I should buy the dior sweatshirt at the mall, knowing it was just a large ego stroke, and that I should not. Pretty sure I should not make that statement again.

Just as I feel the wonder and peace of the modern comforts of the world, I see a group of boys from the younger generation, probably born in the early 2000s. Very thin, with pointy shoulders, pointy elbows, legs dangling when crossed, like a pair of long earings. As if souls from a previous war, waiting to resolve unfinished business from the past.

This look was clearly popular among the younger generation. Sitting on their phones as if to act, that they do not lnow that they are alive to solve the souls debts from another life, to answer questions of pain and grief. Understanding the only way to survive is through a string of kindnesses.

The comfort and illusions of the young modern world blend seamlessly into the world of the elderly generations. An older woman, most likely in her eighties, walking by the young group, with tiny steps and a hunched over back, somewhow smoothly pushing her luggage across the train station. Her matching wool skirt and wool sweater, not completely unnoticed.

The kids so thin as if to dissapear in front of my eyes. So much beauty, pain, and grief. Channeled through such a tiny source of light.