In My Skin

some exchanges:
["you should have felt it" "i feel my leg normally now" ]

["you rip your leg open, you don't feel it. i touch you, and you jump and scratch" ]

["it's strange that you felt nothing" ] ["when i do this, can you feel it?" "no" "no?" ]

["i don't know what to say about your cutting" "say nothing"]

[ "is it my fault? don't you like your body?" ]

[(robotically) "hello! this is your wake up call!]

esther feels nothing when she is injured; she finds joy in self-injury. the world around her is anesthetizing, misogynistic, and devoid of meaning, a stultifying bourgeois haze; to feel pain, to bleed, is to be alive, and to consume one's own flesh is to prevent the world from consuming you instead. esther is alone; she is never left alone. everyone else is a subject; she remains an object. the only way to achieve bodily aesthesis, then, is to discover her physicality through the capacity for furtive, nervous, and finally liberatory pain. there are limits, of course, and we remain trapped in the camera's endless spiral as it withdraws. the stains just look like soft rust after a while