Only folds will guide us to the opening, they say. There I see that folds pretends the exit, but when I arrange to cross it, it roundups on its skin and I arrive at the outset again,  I tried it several times.

 

I got tired of the logic, I say it because I have verified that to border its folds as a serpent, only takes me again at the outset, beginning in the head that devours the tail, to finish again in the head. It must be life mechanic. The wheel of the head-tail, the body-machine, coexists repeatedly in the seam of a dress, without that seam, that unifies linking, the individual, lacking of continuity. The body in the emptiness, breaking itself the ligaments that maintain it painfully, falls.

 

We have to crystallize that envelope? We have to reinforce seams not to lose that logic of the continuity to which we are subordinated?

 

Now I am here, arranged once again to rotate the gears of time, to give regressive account to the seconds that resist the aim. Yearning the moment in which my body is absorbed by the loom and I lose my limits in folds, with a foot in the past and the head give birth the future. 

 

*Extract text from "Far from the end" by Camila Tellez