In all his years, he had never been aware of his shins. They were a part of his body, contributing to the whole. They allowed him to stand. To walk. To explore. He used them all the the time. In his sleep he liked to rub them together, unconscious of the sensation. Maybe it was because he felt distant from them, so he wanted to get closer to them, to feel and know them.

It was a weird thought. 22 years into his life and he was just starting to take notice of himself. Perhaps it was a parallel for the rest of him. He was engaged in some serious self-inspection, introspection.

He had looked at his body before. He loved to be in front of the mirror. Vanity? Could be. He was proud of his body. He had put hard work into it all his years. Naturally, he liked to admire the fruits of his labor. But his legs. What were these foreigners that were so intrinsically linked to him, that act as the link between him and the world around him?

This day he became aware, his shins didn’t seem to be a part of him. It slightly worried him, but more than that intrigued him. Being a man of thought, a trained armchair warrior, he started down the obligatory path of questioning the connection between body and mind, the storehouse and the soul as two distinct entities. But long ago he wrote all that off as nonsense.

Nevertheless, he couldn’t help to shake the feeling that his shins possessed the quality of radical alterity. Sure, there were feet, some knees, maybe even a dick that he took note of as he stood totally nude. But shins. What about these shins? Whose were they? What was he going to do with them now that they were his?