Curvature of the Body

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When stricken by contours of interior life, I bow in reverence to the body that feels. In former times, I would spread beyond borders, crystallized by semi-transparent waters. The threshold of a pulse flirting with death: sharpening the house’s silence with words half slashed. My memories: a traversing uneasiness, greater than a broken heart. The nervure of ice drawing the frontiers between solids and liquids, life and death, nothing to account for a life of leftover surpluses. Immigrant of remnants, I’m the density of sap, whose pressure is inferior to water’s: ice of seventeen crystalline faces, of different temperatures. Despite everything, I count on myself in my first accounts, letting go of the desire to spread out on the floor. In the curvature of my body, I hear myself: leaning against a wall, crying what needs to pass. There, I find space and let it be.

Official Selection of the Short Film Festival: Make Art, not Fear 2021, in Porto, Portugal.