"My wounds are fertile.
They want to clean them, remove the pus and bacteria, suture, disinfect them. But that's not what I want. I have wounds, so I pick at them. Why would I discard the possibility to create wounds so deep, so lush, so beautiful? To disinfect them, rules, schedules, discipline and constant company are required. Time to eat, time to sleep. I know that routine is very important: it is what ties us to sanity. They also tell me that loneliness is my worst enemy, so we are told: "let's go for a walk," "let's go to the garden," "let's go to the beach." There is no self here, it’s always we. We get up at half past eight; we eat at two o’clock; we walk at six; We go to bed at half past ten, although sometimes we sneak up - we also do mischief - and steal milk with cookies from the kitchen. All this disinfects me, purifies me. But I would like to nurture my wounds. Add fertilizer and insecticide so that nests, worms or butterflies don’t appear. This way, stories and tales will sprout from them. I don't know why I think so much about my wounds, but I feel joy when talking about them, when I caress them and feel pleasure from the pang of my fingers touching them. After all, they make me who I am. When I talk about something else I feel it’s not my own voice. Even sometimes, when speaking about them I notice that someone puts the words in my mouth, with their fingers on the keyboard. They steal my voice. A refined and educated lady uses her pedantic vocabulary to explain what is happening to me, why I am so hurt, why I don't want to heal. What does she know? Instead I know everything about her: vain, insecure, pretends to know what she is talking about, but, in fact, knows nothing. Her wounds are like a groove drawn with a stick in the sand of the beach; mine are a deep and steep valley pierced by the erosion of millennia. She doesn't know anything about me, but I know everything about her. She doesn't know what my name is, because we don't have a voice or a proper name, we speak in chorus. Instead, she says what she wants and others must keep quiet and listen. They call her Beatriz Quijano. What would she know about anything?"
Text by Beatriz Quijano