child of the Mediterranean

Existing without alarming hungry eyes is the toughest battle, when so many await to perceive and tear you apart, perhaps for 5 seconds or 10 the most. Their peculiar yet millennial decision-making process often arises with a subtle pinch, to see the object in place better. To determine if it is worthy of validation through a double-tap and simply -with the gentle swipe of an unclean finger- move along the meat market and repeat the action until their eyes burn as if they took a wide-eyed dip in the Mediterranean.

Yet I am the child of those waters, strengthened with every wave, evergrowing with every smooth caress of the sea upon my shore. An olive goddess walking the gracious land, by the precious waters many an ancestor had fought for. 

I am the child of the Mediterranean, my ego big and elastic. Big, for oftentimes I too crave the prehensile affirmation of greasy white fingers upon my pixelated body, to surrender to the male gaze, and momentarily savour the validation it brings.

Elastic, as all of me cannot be contained in a screen, for my earthly presence that you perceive and judge from shallow waters extends far beyond the quay.

For the waters belong to me, and my existence to the sea.