The tits’ weight

Tits: All my life I’ve been having issues with my tits. I always considered them without a sight, without destination, trying to adjust to a body that has bigger arms than the body itself. I’ve been filled with jealousy as I watched all the girls who got them abundant, proud, always facing straight, always facing the sea.

Then I started to have friends who were suddenly losing their tits to cancer. As they were awake with wounds from a wild war, they showed me their mutilated bodies, some with the same proudness from the well tit-served girls, others missing what they wouldn’t have anymore.

For almost three years, I was truly dedicated to the act of breastfeeding and thought that would be the most important activity…until my kids grew up and didn’t need it anymore. As they lost their function, my tits were reduced to a piece of meat attached to a small bra bottom that still left a lot of space in the top.

I’m dumb, I know. Despite seeing my brave friends with their half tits, I don’t put mine in a noble place. All of this stems from my admiration for artists from the Renaissance. I never desired to have them big as Pamela Anderson, but I wished the sweet, firm and middle size tits of Botticelli’s Venus  (“The Birth of Venus”). When I saw them face to face, as I squeezed in between a multitude who also wanted see them at Florence’s UFFIZI Gallery, I felt my tits were almost nothing. But also I got a clear sight of how small I was.

I won’t bring to the world something bigger or firmer than my tits. My tits are exactly what I am: a piece of flaccid meat trying to adjust in the world through gravity. As themselves, I can’t be more important than what I was or who I am.

I’m not a tit in exhibition, one that you can type in Google and find thousands of versions inspired by her. I’m a tit that dedicate to the house and friends, and who try to do it as straight and firm as possible – which isn’t that much.

I’ve been thinking on get some silicone breasts, something that can give more dignity to my tits. But at the same time, I ponder if they wouldn’t be too fake for their purpose in this world. My tits aren’t perfect and I’m not either. Like my friends, I can survive (or at least try to) with the dignity that still remain on my tits. But do I need to get a cancer to truly love them?

PS: I know the love for Renaissance is very common sense. But I fall for them so much. The UFFIZI Gallery has everything, but the Renaissance works you can find there are to make you totally lost in love. Please, get used of the fact I’ll talk more about works I saw there (and my apologies in advance for that!) But if the museum is in your plans, have in mind the opportunity to spend the day there. And do not forget to prepare your feet and drool for the visit. 



Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

Powered by WordPress.com.

Up ↑

lapieldelabatata

Bocetos, versiones, fragmentos de realidad · Textos por: Andrés Gómez O

The Daily Post

The Art and Craft of Blogging

%d bloggers like this: