“We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations.”
I have always been fascinated with layers. Full skirts of secrets, delicate fabrics piled up like soft snow over each other, a soft movement over the skin.
Layers should not come with weight, there should always be plenty of pockets of air, spaces where to hide and discover, a lightness that frees instead of imposing.
That is my type of skirt-the one I want my mind dressed of, with plenty of room for the cells, a nest to my constellations...