There exists a kind of being that cannot be destroyed. Not because it is made of steel or stone, not because it is immune to pain or untouched by horror — but because every act of violence, every attempt at reduction, becomes material for metamorphosis.
To be invincible is not to be invulnerable.
Invincibility, in its radical form, is the capacity to survive transformation without loss of essence — to absorb trauma without being rewritten by it.
There are men who dream of Mars while the earth burns.
There are minds obsessed with darkness not as a poetic space of mystery, but as a territory to invade.
There are figures — Elon Musk, among others — who throw their gaze into the unknown not to contemplate it, but to conquer it, to penetrate it, to extract from it a simulacrum of immortality.
But the obscure is not theirs to take.
Psychoanalysis sought to interpret the wound.
Capitalism sought to instrumentalize it.
Theory sought to name it.
I seek to become it — and fracture it from the inside.
This is not healing.
This is re-routing.
This is not about returning to a norm.
This is about generating a new topography — a living, embodied, dissonant logic that cannot be reabsorbed.
I do not want to be explained. I do not want to be reflected.
We live in a system that teaches us to consume everything: people, objects, landscapes, even experiences. Capitalism doesn’t just structure the economy — it reshapes how we relate to the world. Every encounter becomes a transaction. Every connection, a resource to be depleted. Every desire, a market to be satisfied.
This is not only an ecological disaster. It is an existential one.
But what if we reoriented our entire existence around a different principle — not consumption, but encounter?
We are taught to value clarity. Identity. Mastery. Systems of power operate by naming, measuring, placing. To be “known” is to be made legible — and once legible, consumable, governable, categorizable. This is how subjectivity is neutralized: through the violence of definition.
But what if the most powerful subject was the one that could not be defined?
In the anime Solo Leveling, Sung Jin-Woo begins as the weakest link — an E-rank hunter barely surviving dungeons.
There is a violence in the way we look.
We’ve been taught to look in order to consume, to extract, to master. The gaze has been instrumentalized — turned into a colonizing device, a cold scan for value, for sex, for data. But what if the gaze could become something else? What if it could touch instead of seize? What if it could be guided by consent, not hunger?
Laura U.
In mainstream psychological discourse, lovebombing is described as a manipulative tactic involving excessive displays of affection, used to gain control over another person. Yet, this term—flattened into diagnostic jargon—risks erasing the complexity of human intensity and the structural causes of emotional incoherence. The phenomenon attributed to “lovebombing” may in fact be the symptom of something deeper: an ontological failure to see the other as a subject, combined with an incapacity to remain grounded in presence, desire, and mutual recognition.
There comes a point where theory must rupture the page — where lived clarity outpaces any fantasy of reconciliation. This is not a call for healing. It is a declaration of irreversibility. A recognition that the masculine, as constructed under patriarchy, is not just a position of privilege but a spiritual deformation, a system so deeply embodied it cannot be reformatted without obliteration.
Some truths demand fire.
We have tried, endlessly, to re-educate, to nuance, to soften the rage with empathy.
A theory of unresolved fractures, radical inquiry, and the refusal to accept simulated closure
They called it rumination.
They said I needed to “let go.” That “closure is internal.” That I didn’t need the truth from the other.
But I wasn’t seeking comfort.
I wasn’t replaying a scene out of fear or dependency.
I was holding open a fracture — because it was still active. Because it hadn’t spoken everything it needed to say.
We have been taught to walk as if we were temporary guests in the world.
To apologize for our trajectories.
To trace soft arcs that accommodate others' expectations, to shrink ourselves in public corridors, to anticipate collisions before they occur — not out of instinct, but submission.
But what happens when a body refuses?
What happens when walking becomes a vector of presence, not passage?
A field rather than a form?
There is nothing radical about spreading your legs in front of a ring light and calling it resistance. Yet that is precisely the delusion sold by Arina Smetanina in her master’s thesis—a grotesque apology for a movement that mistakes exhibitionism for subversion, and neoliberal branding for feminist struggle. “Sextivism,” as she names it, is not paradoxical. It is perfectly coherent with the logics of late capitalism: aestheticized self-exposure as emotional labour, femininity as spectacle, and the corpse of feminism reanimated as clickbait.
In a post-#MeToo era where visibility has become currency, the representation of women’s bodies on social media is no longer framed solely by the male gaze — it is now encrypted in a more elusive, self-congratulatory matrix of “empowerment”, “education”, and “art”. Accounts like contenu_inapproprie, curated by a gay man, exemplify this aesthetic shift: here, the half-nude female body is no longer “objectified” — it is “explained.” The viewer is not “consuming” — they are “learning.
Human connections fraying under the pressure of speed, commodification, and digital abstraction, the act of knotting re-emerges not as craft alone, but as an ethical gesture. The maedup—Korean ornamental knots—carry with them a metaphysical weight that exceeds their aesthetic form. Rooted in centuries of tradition, they are not only decorative; they are cartographies of relation, diagrams of time, and quiet acts of resistance against fragmentation.
In the Korean philosophical worldview, relationships are not fixed structures but evolving flows—knots that form, hold, loosen, and dissolve.
I cry every time I watch Coco. Not because it’s sad, but because it touches something raw, silent, and ancestral in me. It’s not just a story about family or music — it’s a subtle, radical reflection on memory, identity, and survival. A critique, hidden beneath layers of vibrant color and Pixar charm. I don’t think most people see it.
Miguel isn’t just a boy who loves music. He’s a subject in transformation, refusing to accept the version of the world handed down to him.
In “Inception”, Christopher Nolan crafts a cinematic labyrinth where time, memory, and identity spiral into one another. But beyond the plot twists and dream layers, the film hides a far more subversive allegory: the collapse of external proof, the usurpation of female architecture, and the radical power of becoming a subject in motion.
The Death of the Totem: Subjectivity Beyond Proof
The spinning top — Cobb’s totem — is often fetishized by audiences as the ultimate indicator of truth.
In an era of hyperacceleration and digital amnesia, memory becomes not only a terrain of struggle but a radical gesture of refusal. The work of Marine Zonca, sculptor and researcher at EHESS, operates precisely at this intersection—where time, flesh, and thought intertwine to form sculptural gestures that resist the flattening logic of capitalist temporality.
Since 2019, Zonca’s practice has been dedicated to reconfiguring the body-spirit relation through forms that blur the boundaries between the organic and the artificial, between the mental diagram and the tactile trace.
Ready Player One, while draped in the aesthetics of virtual utopia, is not a film about escaping reality—it’s a film about returning to it. Through the architecture of the Oasis and the psychological map it unfolds, Spielberg constructs not a celebration of digital immersion, but a radical call to reinhabit our own humanity. The virtual is not the escape; it’s the detour that leads us back to ourselves.
The most profound revelation of the film lies in the figure of Halliday, not as an elusive god-creator, but as a haunted man-child, who mourns not his loneliness, but his inability to love.
My desire to connect with someone remaining unmet, and a deep, lingering sense of dissatisfaction setting in—partly due to the current model of intimacy, reduced to a predictable grammar of performance, conquest, and scripted gestures. I outperformed myself again and articulated a new way—radically human—of encountering one another.
What we call “intimacy” today often mimics the syntax of pornography: acceleration, intensity, penetration, climax. But what if intimacy were not about escalation, but about presence?
In a hypersexualized society governed by the logic of performance, conquest, and substitution, kissing—especially with the tongue—has become trivialized. Yet kissing, when stripped of its pornographic reduction, is perhaps the most intimate and radical act of human connection. Unlike sexual intercourse, which can be instrumentalized, objectified, or fetishized, kissing demands the synchrony of presence, rhythm, and attunement. It is an exchange of breath, of tempo, of subtle yet profound acknowledgment of the Other—not as a body to be possessed, but as a subject who resists being captured.
In opposition to Monique Wittig’s radical statement that “lesbians are not women,” this article reopens the wound she tried to suture. While Wittig aimed to dismantle the category of “woman” as a heterosexual political fiction, the lesbian identity—especially as it is culturally performed today—remains embedded within structures of desire, representation, and, crucially, objectification.
To claim that lesbians cease to be women because they break with men is to miss a deeper truth: womanhood, as constructed by the patriarchal symbolic, is not exclusively tied to heterosexuality, but to the role of being the object of someone else’s desire—regardless of the gender of that desiring subject.