Fabrica

FABRICA 巧 I am a tender creature with no edges. Across the road, the last light of an office building is being switched off. I lay on my apartment floor with one hand on my stomach. Through an old cotton t-shirt, I feel my breaths—deep and drawn out. I have so many questions and not enough tears to shed as placeholders for the answers. Where do we start sifting through the ruins? One must be very clever to be a liar. After all, the word “fabricate” is derived from fabrica, which means skilfully crafted. I mull over the ways language can be twisted and spun. With enough repetition, fictions turn into truths. Fabrications are woven into a social fabric that envelopes all bodies. It was Vesalius who used the word fabrica to describe the skilful design of the human anatomy. In many ways, he was right. I am a resilient machine; my body, a wondrous assemblage of parts. Just as a piece of fabric can withstand tension, I am soft, yet I am strong. But today, I am very, very tired. A shapeless mass on the floor, a scrunched-up cloth.