Dedicated to the lift that held me like a mother

On grief, fear, and the unbearable weight of our living

Maybe that’s why we often feel so compelled to take pictures of ourselves in lifts: it has less to do with light than with the joy of feeling light, safe too, like in a sort of womb.

When I told my mom a year and a half ago that I had moved to the 16th floor of a 24-storey building, also as a sort of exposure therapy for my fear of lifts, she joked that …