I make up my own etymology. ”Vulnerable” clearly comes from the Latin “vulnus”, which means “wound”, and “able” - everybody knows what “able” means.
They put me in the cistern outside the house. It's a damp and dark place. I have to sit there until I behave. I can take it. There is moss on the circular wall. I am vulner-able and I am on a quest for words. Now I have tamed “vulnerable”. The mouldy smell of the porous cement. I can bear it.
There is more to be had from this family. I am not allowed to sleep in my bed any longer. I wet it. They have made me a kind of pen, lined with rubber, where I am also fed. When I eat I think of Foucault. I know fuck all about Foucault but I think of him anyway. I think he was a very privileged person, a little bit like me: he could find the time to make up new concepts. “This is not really this, this is that”. Yes. A bit like me.
Once a month, roughly, they give me a bath. I luxuriate in it, make little waves with my hands, let the water ripple across my breast. I couldn't be happier – given the circumstances. Then they come and tell me to be still and I evade them again in a tunnel of thought, which almost always leads to Achilles. When his mother dipped him in Styx when he was tiny she held him by the heels, hence his “vulnerable” spot.
But I have given “vulnerable” a new meaning, its correct meaning, based on etymology. What it really means is “ability to carry wounds”. I have that ability. No, I am not crying. I am not crying.
(utmaning: skriv om något sårbart)