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In the debut of his column for Complete Magazine, fashion designer Rafael Silveiro reflects on rupture, identity, and the silent processes of reconstruction.
The truth is that many of us are still breaking limiting beliefs, and to do so is a kind of death and rebirth, the creation of a mythology in which we can finally accommodate our size. That means breaking with people we still love and with habits we learned that would keep us safe, but the truth is that none of them protected us.
Unbeatable faith is to deny everything that was conditioned to find, in another time and space, a version of ourselves that is greater than any fated destiny, to have the courage to accept our own creative power, but also the impotence to accept an immutable part.
Where did our dreams go? At what point do we stop believing before we are aware of the impact of our movements? Would we have to sacrifice a purity in our gestures? We gently allowed fear to calculate our actions. Today we live tired of constant caution, in order to avoid another fight, the exhaustion of the characters we invented for ourselves.
Afraid of confrontation, we seek comfort without remembering that, in the search for it, we only become a draft of who we really are.
Our hearts are squeezed in a few minutes between an app car ride and the tears that roll under the shower, before we dress up the character we created.
Why do we stop being moved and stop feeling? Just by validating a performative authenticity that is not consistent with the size of the sphere that surrounds us?
Wrapped in a wrapper, we're still incubated, gestating ourselves in a version that never seems ready enough to see the light of day. Between a pile of practical tasks and the hopelessness of an endless scroll of war news, memes that satirize reality, and tips from coaches with five habits for a healthier life, where do our dreams live?
Are we overwhelmed by the mountain of other people's opinions about ourselves and everything around us, unable to recognize our own, hear our thoughts and feelings, always being slaves to none of them?
Sometimes loneliness is the only relief we have, even though we are hungry for some kind of liberation, we remain silent.
We spent so much time upholding all expectations of better winds, but we never woke up to the low call of ourselves. It is necessary to maintain the structures that continue to devour the chest, being strong, swallowing the cry and inverting values without ever understanding the priorities. For those who were made to serve, moments of free will become true torture, for those who have never before had the feeling of living without fear.
We live in the expectation of calling someone a leader and claiming the false autonomous choice over our own will, in the yearning for something that we can crush, or even hurt, whether it be the other or, worse, ourselves.
In the apathy of a new fall, we live in the hope of a spring, whatever it may be.
