Not as a statement.

Not as courage.

Not as healing.

Not as rebellion.

It’s not sacred. It’s not radical. It’s not brave.

It’s just… normal.

Normal enough that I don’t feel the need to explain it to myself, which is probably why it bothers other people more than it ever bothered me.

I’m not naked for anything.

Not for confidence.

Not for art.

Not for men, women, theory, or liberation.

I’m naked because clothes are optional and my body doesn’t require commentary.

Sometimes I’m naked because it’s hot.

Sometimes because fabric feels stupid.

Sometimes because I don’t feel like performing the ritual of getting dressed.

There is no deeper layer waiting underneath.

No metaphor.

No lesson.

I don’t romanticize it. I don’t elevate it. I don’t protect it with philosophy.

I also don’t feel the urge to defend it.

Defense implies doubt.

Doubt implies conflict.

There is no conflict here.

I’m not trying to convince anyone that nudity is good, natural, feminist, healthy, or enlightened. If someone needs a reason, they can borrow one from somewhere else.

For me, it’s closer to breathing.

You don’t celebrate breathing.

You don’t justify it.

You don’t write essays about why air is allowed.

You just do it.

Sometimes I’m naked and nothing happens.

No desire.

No meaning.

No transformation.

Just skin existing in the same room as thought.

That’s the part people don’t like.

The lack of spectacle.

The absence of intention.

They want nudity to do something.

To say something.

To stand for something.

I don’t.

I’m not interested in making my body useful to anyone’s narrative — not even my own.

This isn’t vulnerability.

This isn’t power.

This isn’t exposure.

It’s just a state I return to because it feels unremarkable.

And I wanted to put that outside of myself, once, without decorating it.

That’s all.

No conclusion.

No permission slip.

No explanation following this one.

Just the fact, sitting there.