There were almost no leaves left on the trees, but that day we woke up with wings | 2021, Vermont | Photoperformance | Bioplastic based on cassava, leaves and natural pigments | PH Elena Kendall

I hear the heartbeat of a secret. I bring rumblings from the skin within. I prepare to melt into the vertigo of a leap, from the margin of my sheath into the depths of my body. That threshold is the edge of my impulse; from where I cannot see myself, I can feel the earth and all its pulses. I squeeze myself in my arms until reality is far from the blush of my existence. I wriggle in my folds until I am slip, debris, interlining. I writhe until my blood becomes a stream, my breath gravity, my pores seeds. I exist ethereal and frugal, until I collide with the instant that aims at a center: I live. I am my own timeless trace, my most organic footprint, my most grown cocoon. I am prior to all you see. I am also the farthest distance from my center. Subterranean and silent, I am the decline from where there is no longer descent. I have reached the point where the bark falls, where the rumbling becomes wind and the texture of my survival beats, where my most primitive light vibrates in the darkness and the only thing that remains to be painted is written on the mouths of my skin. ___ by Sofía Pal