醒來是先有光，然後才有我。
光是糊的，冷冷的，像隔著一層沒有擦乾淨的玻璃透進來。我以為我還沒睜開眼睛，用力眨了一下——眼皮碰在一起，又分開。動作是對的，可光還是糊的，糊得黏住了視線。腦子裡有什麼東西嗡的一聲接上了，很慢，一格一格的。
我覺得我醒了，我應該要起來。
這個念頭最先成形。起來，站起來，我在哪，先去把窗簾拉開。
今天不是出了門的嗎？我記得頭髮剛綁好，馬尾在腦後晃，末梢一下一下掃著頸窩，癢癢的；裙襬會擦過大腿，涼鞋的帶子勒著腳背，有點緊。
When I woke up, there was light first, and then there was me.
The light was blurry and cold, filtering in as if through a sheet of unwashed glass. I thought I hadn't opened my eyes yet and blinked hard—eyelids touched, then parted. The movement felt right, but the light remained blurry, sticky enough to trap my vision. Something in my head hummed into connection, slowly, frame by frame.
I felt I was awake. I should get up.
This thought took shape first. Get up, stand up, where am I, go pull open the curtains first.
Didn't I go out today? I remember just tying my hair up, the ponytail swaying behind my head, its ends brushing against the nape of my neck ticklishly; the hem of my skirt grazing my thighs, the sandal straps hugging my instep a little too tightly.
可我現在是什麼姿勢？站著？坐著？還是被什麼東西撐著？
不對。重量不對。
我試著抬起左腿。抬不起來。不是麻，是整個世界不讓我抬。它就立在那兒，又重又實又穩，像柱子嵌進地裡。我愈用力，它愈把我往下壓，視線也跟著墜了一下。
這不對。左腿該在遠遠的、低低的地方。可它現在就在這兒，離我這麼近，近得中間憑空少了一截該有的什麼。
急了，我改動動腳趾。
然後我猛地一晃。視野——這個正透過眼睛往外看的東西——整個翻過去又翻回來，涼鞋底「吱」地蹭過地面，腳掌卻不太理我，自己搶先歸了位。左腿搖搖擺擺，像風裡的竹竿，幅擺愈來愈小，終於自己站穩。
再動一次腳趾。頭就跟著再晃一次。髮尾掃過一片溫熱的皮膚，是大腿內側。那陣癢，是同時來的。
頭，就擱在腿上。我的腿。涼鞋的金屬扣在視線底部閃著冷冷的光。
But what posture am I in right now? Standing? Sitting? Or held up by something?
No. The weight is wrong.
I try to lift my left leg. I can't. It's not numb; it's as if the whole world won't let me lift it. It stands right there—heavy, solid, steady, like a pillar embedded in the ground. The harder I try, the more it presses me downward, and my line of sight drops along with it.
This isn't right. My left leg should be far away, down low. But right now it's right here, so close to me—so close that a necessary chunk of something in between seems to have vanished into thin air.
Panic setting in, I try wiggling my toes instead.
Then I lurch violently. My visual field—this thing looking out through my eyes—flips upside down and back again. The sandal sole squeaks against the floor, but the foot ignores me, snapping back into place on its own. My left leg sways like a bamboo stalk in the wind, the oscillations growing smaller until it finally stabilizes itself.
I move my toes again. My head sways with it once more. The ends of my hair brush against a warm patch of skin—the inner thigh. That tickle arrives at the exact same moment.
My head is resting directly on my leg. My leg. The sandal's metal buckle gleams with a cold light at the very bottom of my vision.
這個念頭浮上來的時候，連「荒謬」的念頭都沒有。我只是覺得，關係錯了。
左腿不該在正下方，像根柱子似的。太近了，近到好像我天生就該這樣長——可中間又隔著什麼，厚厚的，說不出來。像隔了好幾道牆在敲門，回音要很久才傳回來，傳回來的時候已經認不出是敲門聲。
那右腿呢？
在後面。比我還高，垂著，晃。看不見，卻感覺得到——小腿肚的肌肉鬆垮垮地盪著，涼鞋半掛在腳上，繫帶蹭著腳踝，來回，來回。為什麼那麼高？為什麼在我背後？我該被好好地安排在兩條腿上，現在一條成了柱子，一條成了掛在天上的鐘擺。
那我在哪裡？
When this realization surfaces, not even the thought of "absurdity" comes to mind. I just feel that the relationship is wrong.
My left leg shouldn't be directly beneath me, standing like a pillar. It’s too close—so close it feels as though I was meant to grow this way—yet separated by something thick and indescribable in between. It's like knocking on a door behind several walls; the echo takes forever to return, and when it does, it no longer sounds like a knock.
What about my right leg?
It's behind me. Higher up than I am, dangling, swinging. I can't see it, but I can feel it—the calf muscle hanging loosely, the sandal half-dangling off the foot, straps grazing the ankle back and forth, back and forth. Why is it so high? Why is it behind my back? I ought to be neatly arranged atop two legs, but now one has become a pillar, and the other a pendulum suspended in the sky.
Then where am I?
想用手去摸。意念送出去，過了很久，遠遠的地方才有動靜。左邊麻，右邊慢，兩隻手像從深水底下伸上來的，濁濁的，不清不楚。指尖碰到的東西散掉了，分不出是布還是皮膚。我記得我的手——指甲，指節，紋路——可一想，它們就溶了，像墨掉進水裡。叫它們握拳，它們張開；叫它們張開，它們慢半拍地握了握。
它們掛著的地方，好像也還是我。右後方，一整團。
鬆鬆垮垮的，像化在溫泉裡。感覺斷斷續續地來，淡淡的，悶悶的，有時嗡嗡嗡的，間或啪一下，像隔壁房間有人說話，聽不清字句，只曉得有聲音。
起伏。起伏。它……在呼吸嗎？
忽然有些什麼從裡面傳過來——咚。咚。咚好像不全，有幾個落下去，漏了，我猜。
那是我的身子嗎？是的話，它怎麼一副什麼都不知道的樣子，安安靜靜地擱在那兒，胸，腰，肚子，曲線，都妥妥裝在衣裙裡——應該是吧——細肩帶輕輕壓著肩頭，像是自己還好端端的。
可它的下面，硬的，涼的，像肉碰到了階梯。感覺走到那裡就斷了，一半跳到柱子那邊，一半跳到擺錘那邊。「我」也跟著跳來跳去。
I try to use my hands to feel around. I send out the command, but only after a long pause is there any movement in the distance. The left is numb, the right is sluggish; both hands feel as though reaching up from deep underwater, murky and indistinct. What my fingertips touch scatters, unable to distinguish fabric from skin. I remember my hands—the nails, knuckles, palm lines—but the moment I think about them, they dissolve, like ink dropped into water. I tell them to form a fist, and they open; I tell them to open, and half a beat late, they form a limp fist.
Where they hang from seems to still be me, too. Off to the back right, a whole mass.
Loose and limp, as if dissolving in a hot spring. Sensations arrive intermittently—faint, muffled, sometimes humming, occasionally popping with a snap, like someone talking in the next room where you can't make out the words, only knowing a voice is there.
Rising and falling. Rising and falling. Is it... breathing?
Suddenly something transmits from within—thump. thump. thump. It doesn't sound complete; a few beats dropped, missed, I guess.
Is that my torso? If so, why does it act completely oblivious, resting quietly over there? Chest, waist, belly, curves—all neatly fitted inside clothes—presumably so—spaghetti straps resting lightly on shoulders, acting as if everything is perfectly fine with itself.
But beneath it, something hard and cool, like flesh meeting steps. The sensation cuts off right there, half jumping over to the pillar, half jumping over to the pendulum. "I" jump back and forth right along with it.
分佈式存在。
這幾個字不曉得從哪兒冒出來——好像是前幾天在哪本文藝的書上瞄到的，現在自己竄了上來，黏在思緒上，甩不掉。
分佈式存在，說的就是我這樣的吧。頭在腿上，腿在天上，身子躺在桌上，手在半空中遲疑。
硬硬涼涼的那邊，是大腿吧。我的。
Distributed existence.
Where these words came from, I don't know—maybe something I glimpsed in a literary book a few days ago. Now they pop up on their own, clinging to my thoughts, impossible to shake off.
Distributed existence—that must refer to something like me. Head on leg, leg in the sky, torso lying on a table, hands hesitating in midair.
That hard, cool surface—that must be thighs. Mine.
我應該害怕。
腦子裡這個字跳出來——害怕——亮亮的，清楚的，像招牌燈。可是那個該亮的地方沒亮。手伸過去摸，胸口那團溫溫的、軟軟的東西，像沒醒的麵團。動是會動，但那個「動」走到上端，卡了。它傳過來的東西，到了我這裡就變了形——手告訴我的。像點了一份漢堡，端上來的卻是三明治，都是麵包夾肉，但……哪裡不對，說不上來。
它跳它的，我想我的。偶爾在黏糊糊的雜音裡冒出一個節拍，像是哪個音對了，又馬上糊掉。那是害怕嗎？還是別的？委屈？想逃？還是想留下來？我認不出來。名字和感覺對不上。跌倒會痛——痛是什麼？被嚇會哭——要用哪裡哭？
我是一個，但又不止一個。我在這裡站著，同時又在那裡盪著，在後方擱著。每一個都跟我有關，每一個都離我遠遠的。
我怎麼了？不知道。應該要想知道，可是那個「想知道」的齒輪好像也卡住了，缺了油，轉不動。
I ought to be afraid.
The word pops up in my mind—afraid—bright and clear, like a neon sign. But the place that ought to light up remains dark. My hand reaches over to feel: the warm, soft mass at my chest feels like unrisen dough. It moves, yes, but when that "movement" reaches the top, it gets stuck. Whatever signal it sends transforms by the time it gets to me—or so my hand tells me. Like ordering a burger and being served a sandwich: both are meat between bread, but... something is off, though I can't name what.
It beats on its own, while I think on mine. Occasionally, amid the sticky static, a rhythm emerges—as if a note hit right—only to blur away instantly. Is that fear? Or something else? Resentment? A desire to escape? Or to stay? I can't recognize it. The labels and sensations don't match up. Falling hurts—what is pain? Being frightened makes you cry—cry with what?
I am one, yet more than one. I stand here while simultaneously swinging over there and resting behind. Every single part belongs to me, yet every single part is miles away.
What happened to me? I don't know. I should want to know, but the gear for "wanting to know" seems stuck too, lacking oil, unable to turn.
我是人嗎？記憶說是。梳頭，穿裙子，腳滑進涼鞋，出門，走進光裡。可現在這堆我……算是什麼？我在這裡，同時又在那裡。每一塊都是我，每一塊都不是我。
窗外有聲音。遠遠的，拖著尾音，有氣無力的。車子？風？鳥？隨便。光裡面有灰塵在飄，很慢，上上下下的，像不知道該停在哪裡。
我聽著，但不想弄清楚。弄清楚要做什麼呢？
光還是糊的。從窗子漫進來，鋪在不知道是什麼的地方。我在這裡，像等人來幫我拼回去。又像又像本來就是這樣，從來沒有被拼起來過。
Am I human? Memory says yes. Combing hair, putting on a skirt, slipping feet into sandals, stepping out, walking into the light. But this heap of "me" right now... what does it count as? I am here, and simultaneously over there. Every piece is me, yet no piece is me.
There are sounds outside the window. Distant, trailing, listless. Cars? Wind? Birds? Whatever. Dust motes drift through the light, slow, floating up and down, as if uncertain where to settle.
I listen, but I don't care to figure it out. What good would figuring it out do?
The light remains blurry. It spills through the window, spreading over somewhere unrecognizable. I am here, as if waiting for someone to put me back together. Or as if... as if it was always meant to be like ths, never assembled in the first place.
