A worn t-shirt and expressions of the inexpressible
<p>I am wearing these words. I wish they were bespoke, well-cut, stylish. I wish I wore them with carefree ease, the grace that comes with joyful confidence, sprightly health, and an unburdened conscious. But these words are second-hand, I found most of them in the scrap heap, stole others from my betters, and none of them are rightly mine. They are worn and stained, clunky and awkward, a poor fit for what I really mean to say. Woven into stories, I pretend they are a person. They fail as soon as I slip them on.</p> <p>They are not even made of wool or cotton, silk or organdy, fur pelts or polyester weaves. They are made of paper. Cut into stacks of unblemished perfection and uniform size, the perfection of paper is fragile and temporary. Paper is made to be marked, readily stained, blacked out with a spill. As soon as I wear them, they tear. They smudge with every turn. And they are so fragile. Something a baby could crumple, an errant ember would turn it to ash, weep on these words and they’ll run, the cool kiss of rain dissolves them all into nothing. And still I wear them. Purchased through the economies we humans construct, of commerce and meaning, I wear to show who I am, but also to protect me…</p>
Authors: Andrew Berardini
Artists: Mélanie Matranga
Part of: TextWork
ISSN: 27269949