So, what's wrong? I don't want to think it's the small things, because you can't replace those parts; nor do I want to think it's the big things, because those parts are expensive. So, I think I'd like you to tell me that everything's fine, that underneath everything's fine, that there are scratches and dents, but that everything's fine. I don't care if there are two things, or three, or four, that have to be held together with tape and epoxy and ribbons for life; I just don't want to mess with it too much. It's not fear—though specifying it might be a symptom of the opposite—it's more that I don't care if, with a sudden movement, everything breaks, falls apart, if the original state of things is forgotten and it seems healthy to remain in ruins, if its sides explode and it belches out its essence. I don't want them to focus on the small parts, to think it was an explosion; Yes, one of those collisions against a wall plastered with the names of politicians and expired concerts, one of those statim mortemcrashes where you're thrown into a crushed eternity and all that's left of you are your teeth and your witnesses. Tell me it's been messed up since it left the factory, that it wasn't the fault of where it went or where I left it. Don't shine your damn little flashlight in the nooks and crannies that seem to say "look but don't touch"; leave them like that, man, it'll be alright. Because everything is alright.
Photography by Xiang Tiange
Writer and photographer from Mexico City and Baja California Norte. I've built a shrine around Stridentism and forgotten Infrarealism.