Her name is Lea. She’s 30. She lives and works in an old apartment where it’s almost always dim; in this muted light, she feels most at ease.
Lea often finds herself thinking that the body she lives in doesn’t quite match who she is. She constantly wants to change it, to find a state where it finally feels aligned with her inner sense of self. Sometimes she says, “I think I’m just copying someone else’s behavior.” As if she’s forgotten her original purpose and is now vaguely trying to remember who she is and why she’s here.
As she reflects on her body, Lea creates objects - she says it’s easier to express physical sensations through them, to give form to what’s happening inside. She might crush something, tie it, or leave it as is - it’s all instinctive. “I just start making something with my hands,” Lea says, “and only later I realize - it’s exactly how I felt this morning.”
Lea feels a pull in two directions: she wants to be seen, but also wants to disappear. On one hand, she likes being around people. On the other, she says the dark apartment helps her fade - it hides the parts of her she feels are “not entirely human.”
That’s why she rarely leaves home and loves staying in bed for long stretches, watching herself.
Sometimes, when she looks in the mirror, she doesn’t recognize her reflection. Or when she touches her skin, she suddenly loses the sense of familiarity. She wonders: “Is this my body, or am I just here temporarily?” and “Why do I move like this?”
Lea fears that one day, others might find out: she’s only pretending to be an earthly woman. She says she wishes she knew what it’s like - to be a real human being, when body and consciousness fully align.
