I am big

I am big. And it’s beautiful. Being big means not fitting into anyone’s frame — not literally, not metaphorically. I don’t squeeze into narrow views or tiny standards where everyone’s supposed to “fit.” Let them fit themselves. I already live.

My body always keeps a reserve for hard times — of fat, and of wisdom. When I laugh, the air vibrates. The cosmos listens. It’s physically impossible to underestimate me. The thin are always chasing something. I’ve already found it. I don’t run after life — life comes to me, because it’s warm here, and it smells like food.

Like baroque after minimalism — too much, yet beautiful. You can’t break me — I’m too soft for that. The world loses weight from anxiety. I — from pleasure. When I walk into a room, no one pretends not to notice. Everything about me is presence. I don’t build illusions — I create gravity.

I don’t ask — I settle in. I don’t look for a place — I make space. If it feels warmer around you, it’s because I turned your way. Some complain about their weight; I get complaints about my philosophy — and about men’s foolishness. Feel the difference. Where others have anxiety, I have airbags — for falls, and for men.

Like a good book: big means full of meaning. Inside — many chapters, turns, epilogues, and secrets. Not “extra,” but abundant — like life itself. This body is luxury, untrimmed by calories. I don’t walk — I flow, softly, along the curve of my own pleasure. I’m not afraid of shine on my skin, pancakes on the table, or closeness without filters. I’m already home — inside myself.

When I step into an elevator, it sighs. When I sit on a chair, it stops creaking — it understands the meaning of life. This isn’t a diagnosis, but a way of existing where matter defeats anxiety. This body chose to stay on Earth instead of flying off into stories. I sleep better, kiss sweeter, cry less — because there’s always a pastry. Life isn’t a survival contest. Life is a buffet. And going back for seconds isn’t shameful.

My breasts aren’t just breasts — they’re two independent worldviews: a place to keep a phone, some hope, and maybe a few savings. For the thin, they’re decoration; for me, infrastructure. I don’t wear push-ups — I already am up. I don’t wear cleavage — I exist in it. When I bend down, atheists start believing in God. Breasts are always a weighty argument; after that, there’s no point in debating. If someone thinks there’s too much of them, it’s only because there’s too much heart.

In sex, I’m not a body — I’m a coordinate system. You enter like a forest, thinking you’re the hunter, and leave silent — marked with soul-bruises. I don’t fake pleasure. I know what I like — and I take it. No one calls me “baby.” They call me “more.”

I don’t jump on top — I descend, like a kingdom of night.

— “Careful, the couch is expensive.”

That’s how it starts. It’s a crash with no casualties, but definite consequences. If you survive, you’ve earned breakfast. Afterward — tea, a bun, and a discussion about who was better: you or the éclair. I don’t ask “did you like it?” — I check if you’re still breathing. I don’t lose weight — I lose partners. They take time to recover. Like Wi-Fi: when I’m near, everything connects; when I leave, they wander through life with bad signal.

I don’t chase light — light chases me. I turn my head, and darkness becomes cozy. Softness is the finest weapon. You don’t have sex with me — you return to instinct, and realize it’s about faith. I don’t warm — I melt. When you think it’s over, that’s when it really begins.

If you ask me to spread my thighs — look closer: they already have. From laughter, from life, from no longer needing to open on command. I don’t perform — I happen. Like the morning after a celebration: a little heavy, but blissful. I don’t ask permission — I allow. That’s a different kind of power. When I move, it’s not muscles — it’s tides. When I lie down — not beside you, but across your idea of sex. My thighs don’t open — they receive. He’s not made of steel — he’s dough: soft at first, but when the world expands, he rises on his own. My weight isn’t against you — it’s for you, to keep you from floating off into illusions. There’s exactly enough of me to fill the emptiness.

My character isn’t sharp — it’s weighty. I don’t bite — I press with reason. When I speak, the mirror nods in agreement. And when I laugh — even those who don’t get the joke start laughing.

Kindness isn’t naivety; it’s tenderness that knows when to leave. I can comfort, but I don’t allow pity. I don’t hold grudges — I hold distance. Men around me start by trying to prove something, and end up sitting quietly, breathing again. With me, you don’t need to perform — you can simply be. They’re drawn to laughter, to the smell of fresh buns, to calm that feels like home. To hands that don’t compare but accept. To eyes without judgment — only reflection.

I don’t hunt men — I walk. If one falls, it means it was time for him to fall. There’s no coldness in me — I just don’t give warmth on demand. But if I’ve warmed you — you’re lucky: I’ve become your climate. I don’t save men — I return to them their taste for life, for body, for self — and then I let them go. The good cannot be kept, even if you wish it could.

I don’t believe in weak or strong — I believe in the living. And the living sometimes cry, arrive late, tell bad jokes, and come back when it’s too late. With me, it’s quiet — because no one has to pretend anymore.

Yes, the airplane seat might be tight. I take over the armrest; I have my own gravity, and sometimes the pilot banks toward me. I don’t fit into skinny ideas of “normal.” I don’t fit their seats, their XS, or their fragile fantasies of weightless living. Let them be uncomfortable. The real ones stay.

We laugh till we cry, eat from one plate at night. We don’t try to play perfect — it’s pointless anyway. I can listen without interrupting, and hug in a way that makes everything fade — anger, anxiety, even the past. Warmth — in my hands, my voice, my body, my gaze. With me, you can just be — not strong, not clever, not successful, just a big human being, tired of fitting into frames, finally feeling not emptiness, but peace.

When I love — it’s an earthquake. Walls collapse, but life starts to breathe. When I leave — it takes time for the ground to heal where I stood. I don’t pass by — I pass through. With me, you can eat with your hands, talk nonsense, fall face-first into a pillow, and never explain yourself. You can simply be.

Yes, maybe it’s cramped on the plane. But on the ground — there’s space.

I’m the best — not because I’m better than everyone, but because I’m the best at being myself. Fully. With weight. With flavor. With a heart that never goes on a diet.