Fibers grow without asking for our permission. They rise from soil, fed by rain and sun, aligned with systems rather than schedules. Cotton blooms on its own time. Flax chases the light. Wool sheds when it needs to. The earth produces endlessly, without urgency, without a list of goals. It does not ask to be worn. It does not ask to be useful. Existence is plenty.

The humans arrive, deeply concerned.

We demand its résumé: how fast can it grow? How much can it produce? We introduce a plan for optimization. We decide value based on its output rather than its life. Efficiency is virtue. Stillness is indolence.

We gather, we weave, we dye. It is no longer sufficient to just exist. One must now perform. The earth must be productive to justify itself. While not always violent, the transformation is permanent. Function rids presence.

Fibers carry the memory of land, of climate, of water, and the moment they were put to work. Even reshaped and dyed, they remember their origin.

We clothe ourselves in usefulness. We wear function. We rush through a world that rewards busyness rebranded as progress.

But fibers remember a time before this world. Before productivity was mistaken for purpose. Before existence needed a reason.

We dress every day, often noticing aesthetics, fit, brands, and prices. We rarely wonder where a garment came from. Yet clothing invokes questions. Whose hands created this? Were they paid enough? What was the cost of this garment beyond what I paid?

Clothes are never just ornamental decor. Stitches store stories of land, human labor, hierarchy, and often compromise. These questions are quieted in the blur of trends and the comfort of sameness. We dress like carbon copies, adopting identities carefully designed by those who control the industry and mass-produced at scale, detached from what our choices reflect.

Fibers, unable to tell their stories, yearn for attention, reminding us that every dollar participates and every purchase feeds a system. Is it not worth knowing what your favorite label doesn’t want to tell you?

In this issue, MØRF listens to fibers. To what is typical, what is toxic, and what remains possible. Because if we understood what we were truly wearing, we’d let out a silent scream.

Let’s pretend.

Let’s pretend the stories are distant.

That child labor, overworked women, collapsing factories, poisoned rivers are unfortunate but abstract. Tragic, sure. But far away. Not relevant.

Let’s pretend it doesn’t matter who stitched the garment, as long as it fits. As long as it looks good. As long as it was the right price.

Let’s pretend the dyes leaking into rivers aren’t real rivers. That textile waste doesn’t pile up somewhere specific. That plastic-based fabrics shedding into oceans will figure it out themselves. That women working sixteen-hour shifts chose this. Those children sewing buttons, well, that's just the unfortunate life they were born into.

Let’s pretend luxury designers didn’t steal. That they invented everything. That centuries of craft from smaller countries just happened to resemble runway collections. No credit needed. No compensation required. Inspiration starts somewhere.

Let’s pretend mass production is freedom. That wearing the same thing as everyone else is a choice. That fitting in is rewarding, and questioning it is exhausting. Who wants to be an outsider?

It is what it is.

After all, you’re just one consumer in an industry’s mass economy, right?

If pretending made you feel sick, here’s what’s next.

Fast fashion wants you to believe it’s trying. A recycled tag here. A green capsule there. Words like eco, conscious, low impact scattered just enough to quiet doubt. These are not commitments. They deflect questions.

This is greenwashing. Not a mistake, but a strategy. An aesthetic of responsibility designed to keep consumption moving while appearing ethical.

A garment made of recycled polyester can still be sewn in exploitative conditions and shipped in plastic. A brand can call itself sustainable and still release hundreds of styles a week. Green language has become camouflage, not change.

Sustainability does not want to be the next short-lived trend. It is structural. It shows up in wages, transparency, restraint, and longevity. Which is why it’s harder to sell.

So look closer.
Who made it. Where. Under what conditions.
How often the brand produces.
What they show, not what they promise.

If this process feels inconvenient, you’re going too fast.

Ignorance is expensive. Just not for everyone.

Fibers love to tell all, if you follow them far enough.

Which begs a question.
Did we run out of land?
Did cotton go extinct?
Did we forget how to grow things?

Or was the earth just not matching our speed?

Natural fibers still exist. They grow, regenerate, and decompose. They take seasons, weather, and patience. These materials interact differently with the body than synthetic ones, but the industry doesn't want you to care about that.

Factories move faster. Plastic scales better. Oil doesn’t wait. So we began making fibers instead of growing them. Nylon. Polyester. Elastane. (Who doesn’t love Alo?) Materials engineered in labs, not fields. Cheap to produce. Easy to replicate. Designed for speed, not return.

We call it innovation.
Performance.
Technology.

And if it feels strange to wear petroleum on your skin all day, you’re imagining things.

The truth? We didn’t replace natural fibers because they failed us.
We replaced them because they couldn’t keep up.

Polyester makes you sweat less anyway. Or so they say.

Sustainable fashion isn’t perfect yet. It’s slower. Sometimes expensive. Funny what happens when something isn’t subsidized by exploitation.

Slow down.
Buy less.
Wear things longer.
Choose secondhand.
Support brands that are trying, even imperfectly.
Question speed. Question price. Question why it’s so easy.

You don’t need to fix the industry.
You just need to stop feeding it mindlessly.

Fibers can’t just be a thing of the past.

II. FIBER

In the Beginning

You Are What You Wear

Pretending

Take a Sec

Follow the Fibers

No Quick Fix

I. MANIFESTO