Clothing practices that once lived in rhythm with land and body now survive only in fragments of scraps of cloth, faded photographs, stories half-remembered. Hanging on by a thread, the folk arts and crafts of the hill people teeter at the edge of disappearance.

The machinery of capitalism and the slow violence of industrialisation have swept aside the hands that wove meaning into fabric. In their place: polyester blends and powerloom weaves— mass-produced ghosts that now stand in for culture.

I dream of a future where these synthetic imposters unravel. Where polyester threads rot like myths made obsolete. Let them decay, tear, return to nothing. May all clothing, like the bodies it once held, eventually soften into soil, its memory held in the earth itself.