These past few days I have become more aware of my own body. More sensitive to its details: the pores opening, the sounds it makes as it functions… And this flesh… battered by the friction of passing days.
Body. My body. I feel you as something foreign, I feel you as excess. Unable to reconcile with you. I know I owe you so much, body, for you granted me the gift of knowing, and in return I have been ungrateful.
Why do you contain me? Why do you press me against yourself and force me to inhabit you, to watch you decay? Are you afraid of being left alone?
These past few days I have become more aware of my own body. Of others’ bodies. Of what their flesh conceals.
Though perhaps all this hyperfocus is nothing more than having a Cronenberg film on, or having watched too much body horror so far this month.
The terror of having a body! Or the sadness of knowing oneself to be something more.
Of wanting to be something more!
Because I am not my body. I am not this decay nor this fly-specked flesh. Or at least, I refuse to be. And yet I am, and with enormous pathos I try to adorn it, because it is the only thing I can offer you. The only thing I can receive from you.
I long for you, like something hooked and hanging from a butcher’s rail, feeling the cold steel of the hook I dangle from, in the endless moment in which it tears into my back.
Distant. And you are there, and from afar you look at me, and in your gaze I perceive a vastness from which I am exiled.
Photography by Daniela Diaz
Born in Campeche in 2001, he resides in Mérida. From a young age, he found in art a way to dialogue with the world. His work explores time and narration as means of capturing what is essential to the human condition, especially through photography and the written word.