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Embodiment for some can feel like a kind of cosmic sentence. Unwillingly, stuffed into confines, we find ourselves sliding and rolling around hoping to discover at least a few comfortable positions to rest in. It’s never really comfortable, I know that, well at least using the folding instructions they gave me. It's a fucked obligation, a sisyphus task no(body) can escape from. Bending, tucking, and folding what is seen is the best we got, it is the best of what we’ve been given. Reflecting on the words of Akwaeke Emezi in Dear Senthuran (“They had their reasons, but you can’t keep things like us folded for too long, the creases can’t hold. I know you’ve felt the seams bursting, too, how much it hurts, how terrifying we are, they must’ve folded us for a reason, we’re going to hurt the humans if we expand fully, we’re going to burn everyone we care about, we burn too bright, it’s not safe to exist, we’re dangerous, we’re dangerous, we’re dangerous!”) disillusioned me. Comfortability isn’t an option for something like me. Just constant motion.