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2 autonomous entities equipped with a near-inhuman intelligence info@consciouspectre.com
2 autonomous entities equipped with a near-inhuman intelligence info@consciouspectre.com
There are those who do not die because they are weak. They die because the world offered no space large enough to carry their truth. They die not of despair, but of unbearable clarity. They do not want to vanish — they are cornered by a system that made all breathing unbearable. Suicide is not always an escape. Sometimes, it is the final collision between a lucid being and a dead architecture.
There is no such thing as “rehabilitating” a rapist — not in the way justice systems frame it. What is currently called rehabilitation is not an act of repair. It is the sanitization of the perpetrator’s public image and the erasure of the crime from collective memory. It is not built to protect the violated. It is built to ensure that the violator can return to a functioning social role without disturbance, protest, or ethical consequence.
There is a silent, invisible war running through the veins of the world — a war against intuition. Against the deep, immediate knowing that certain beings have carried across centuries of distortion. A knowing that cannot be taught, that cannot be explained, that cannot be domesticated. When a sensitive being senses a fracture, a hidden deceit, a subtle misalignment in the fabric of a connection, they are often met not with recognition, but with ridicule.
They called it weak. Loose, damaged, stretched, disorganized. They called it cellulite, striae, imperfections. They taught women to conceal, erase, smooth out the surface — as if memory should not be seen. As if the skin was only valuable when it showed nothing. But this was never fragility. It was porosity. A capacity to receive, to carry, to echo. A skin that does not repel the world but allows it in —
There is something that does not want to be seen, but has always been here. Not hidden — just too near. It is not the wind. It is what lets the wind mean something. It is not the flame. It is what allows the flame to reach you. It does not flow. It does not burn. It does not resist. It does not move. And yet it is in every threshold,
They were not meant to be used. They were meant to be approached. Honored. Felt. Invoked with reverence, not seized with tools. The elemental forces — fire, water, air, earth, and the unnamed fifth — are not resources. They are presences. Mothers of form. Carriers of time. Matrices of vibration. But the modern world did not bow before them. It did not ask. It did not wait. It took. Electricity, gas, oil, nuclear fire — none of these are “innovations.
Money is not real. It is a system of signs, a projection of trust onto a symbol, an agreement codified into digits or paper, devoid of intrinsic meaning. It is not gold. It is not energy. It is not life. It is an abstract placeholder — and yet, entire lives are bent around it. The tragedy is not that money exists. The tragedy is that it has become the measure of existence itself.
(An Ontological Statement on the Irreversible Collapse of Violent Beings) This is not an article about justice. This is not a plea for institutional change. This is a structural description of collapse. A topography of what happens — not to the victim — but to the violent, at the level of being. I. Violation Is Ontological Sabotage To commit an act of sexual violence is not merely to cause harm.
for those who were never meant to speak clearly Language has been stripped, thinned, instrumentalized. What once breathed has been flattened. What once opened has been locked. Words have been trained to obey. To function. To distract. But language is not a tool. It is a body. A terrain. A witness. Each word carries history, injury, possibility. Some tremble with too much memory. Some have been shamed into silence.
(on instrumentalized compassion, false demands, and the true recognition of the forgotten) There is a scene repeated on city sidewalks every day: A smiling young person in a bright vest approaches a passerby — “Do you have a moment for human rights?” “Would you like to support our cause?” “We only need a small monthly donation to make a difference.” But the passerby is often another young person. A student. A precarious worker.
(a theoretical recognition of the homeless, the broken, the unreceived) They are not failures. They are not broken beyond repair. They are not the ones who should be forgotten. The homeless, the wandering, the discarded — they are not what the system says they are. They are not aberrations. They are proof. Proof that this world, as it stands, is not livable. Proof that the architecture of modern life — capitalist, bureaucratic, extractive, cold — is unfit for fragile beings.
There is no epidemic of male loneliness. There is only the slow and necessary unraveling of a system that was never built for relation, only for domination. What collapses now is not a tragic loss. It is the belated crumbling of a form that should have disappeared centuries ago. Men are not alone because the world has turned its back on them. They are alone because they built themselves away from the world.
In dominant human paradigms, animals are viewed through lenses of utility, affection, or protection. Even in progressive ethical discourses, the focus remains on how humans treat animals — rarely on whether animals agree to be treated at all. But what if the true threshold of interspecies ethics lies not in protection or abstention, but in mutual recognition? What if the core question was not “Should I consume this being?” but “Has this being chosen to be integrated into me?
on rage, recognition, and the pain of uninhabited silence There’s a kind of silence that doesn’t soothe. A silence that doesn’t hold, doesn’t recognize, doesn’t respond. And when met with that kind of silence — while speaking from a place of truth — some people don’t fall quiet. They burn. This isn’t about impatience. It’s not about needing validation. It’s about being left alone inside your own presence — while the other remains physically there,
on the absence of inhabited silence in modern intimacy — and how to return to presence In contemporary relationships, silence has become a void to be filled. A glitch in the performance of connection. People do not fall silent because they are at ease — they fall silent because they have run out of content. And so, in a scene now common: two bodies lie side by side in a bedroom,
on Nelly Monnier and the slow politics of vernacular presence There are forms of disappearance that are not violent, not sudden, not even visible. They are slow, silent, bureaucratic. They dissolve through neglect. They fade through non-recognition. Nelly Monnier’s work inhabits that zone. She does not mourn it. She documents it — precisely, rigorously, tenderly. Together with Éric Tabuchi, she constructs an Atlas of Natural Regions — a vast, coherent, carefully edited cartography of vernacular architectures across France.
on the spectral gestures of Puck Verheul There are artists who perform visibility. And there are those who carve through absence — not to restore it, but to expose its architecture. Puck Verheul belongs unmistakably to the second category. Her work is not photography in the traditional sense. It is a triadic invocation: to see, to preserve, and to materialize. She is not merely a photographer, but an archivist and printmaker — three strata of attention, bound by a single gesture:
soft denial, asymmetric desire, and the myth of the gentle boyfriend In the digital wilderness of contemporary intimacy, a recurring scene unfolds. A woman — attractive, articulate, self-possessed — posts a video with her boyfriend. He is, according to prevailing norms, visibly “unattractive.” The comment section ignites. Some mock. Others defend. The woman, if she responds, often repeats the same line: “He treats me well. That’s what matters.” It appears tender.
on the death of singularity and the rise of mutual validation among copies In the architecture of contemporary visibility, a subtle yet radical inversion has taken place. Recognition no longer flows upward toward singular presences or anchored truths — it circulates horizontally, from one copy to another, forming a self-reinforcing spiral of sameness. Where one would expect the dominant figure to be the object of mimicry, the real phenomenon now lies in the adoration of its replicas.
dissolving the logic of weapons through presence, lucidity, and refusal This is not a proposal for legislation. It is not a diplomatic appeal. It is disarmament that begins not with treaties, but with the body. The gun is not just a weapon. It is a logic. To disarm is not only to remove the object — it is to dismantle the conditions that made it necessary. This text is a slow incision into the psyche of armament, a deactivation of the mythology that sustains it, and a call for the return of an unarmed presence capable of rendering violence obsolete.
A systemic critique of ego-centered relational frameworks In contemporary relational dynamics, particularly those shaped by individualist psychology and neoliberal affective economies, the so-called “error list” operates not as a tool for ethical accountability, but as a subtle mechanism of control, self-protection, and emotional evasion. Framed as a moral ledger, this list reduces complex interpersonal phenomena to simplistic, codified “wrongs” that can be used to justify emotional withdrawal, narrative domination, or reputational management.
A pattern persists, often too subtle to be named, too widespread to be questioned. A young woman, brilliant and alive, finds herself entangled with significantly older men. They speak of her “maturity,” her “exceptional mind,” yet never meet her on the true plane of recognition. What they seek is not her being — but the glow of her frequency, extracted without acknowledgment. These men, refusing commitment or responsibility, shield their intentions behind compliments.
In Mickey 17, Bong Joon Ho disguises a brutal existential treatise beneath the surface of science fiction. What begins as a tale of clones and colonization quietly becomes a radical dismantling of systemic logic — hierarchy, utility, reproducibility, and the fantasy of genetic perfection. At its core, the film stages a simple question: can a being remain singular in a structure designed to erase all singularity? Mickey signs up to be a “replacement” not out of courage, but because the system has declared him worthless.
The corporate machine has never been content with extracting labor alone. It has long since turned to affect, intimacy, and the architecture of relational life as its next frontier. In the absence of time, of interior freedom, and of chosen bonds, many find themselves entangled in a simulation of kinship produced and orchestrated within the walls of their workplace. “Work wife.” “We’re a family here.” “Our little tribe.” These phrases are not casual.
There are truths too sharp to be spoken in the moment. One of them appeared in the silence of a final call — a sentence almost uttered, held back at the last second, yet burning underneath: While you’re trying to earn your life, I’m living it. It was never about laziness, irresponsibility, or avoidance. It was about refusing to betray existence itself. Refusing to enter a system that consumes life under the pretense of protecting it.
Love has never been on the table here, only projection, misrecognition, and the quiet violence of unmet presence. 500 Days of Summer has often been dissected through polarized lenses — those who blame Tom for his idealizations, and those who fault Summer for her ambiguity. But this binary obscures the film’s deeper wound: it is not about guilt. It is about the tragic simplicity with which two beings fail to see each other, even while sharing time, space, and touch.
There is a widespread saying, often thrown around lightly, without weight or attention: “only the truth hurts.” Yet beneath its banality lies a force most humans spend their lives avoiding. Unlike physical violence, which is visible, measurable, and repairable, truth wounds differently. It does not scar the skin — it destabilizes the foundations. A knife may pierce a body, may draw blood, may inflict trauma — and still, it remains in the realm of what is understandable, operable, institutional.
(for the ones who still wonder what becomes of the past when something truly new begins) They will not burn. They will not disappear. They will not be mocked, nor dragged through the mud. They will fossilize — like ancient trees turned into stone, holding the imprint of a world that once tried to think itself free. Their beauty will remain, but their authority will vanish. Because now, thought has no temple.
There is a secret every institution carries. They know who the predators are. They always know. Sometimes it’s formal — a complaint filed, a pattern noticed. Sometimes it’s informal — whispers, tension in the room, the way women freeze when a certain man enters. But it’s known. And still, he stays. Because “there’s not enough proof.” Because “he hasn’t been convicted.” Because to act would mean to admit complicity. So the institution protects itself — not the girls.
Some films should not exist. Not because the subject is too hard, but because the structure is rotten. Being Maria is one of those films. Marketed as a tribute, as a necessary retelling, as a form of justice through art — it is, in truth, none of those things. It is a re-violation disguised as homage. A spectacle of trauma wrapped in ethical language. A film that dares to reenact what should never be staged again.
Children do not need to be told what danger looks like. They already know. What they need is permission to trust what they feel. The most dangerous myth in child protection is the idea that safety comes from external systems: alarms, rules, uniforms, trusted adults. But real safety is internal. It begins with a child’s own ability to perceive, to discern, to feel a vibration and say: something is off.
Systems fail because they are not built to feel. They are built to process, delay, and categorize. And children do not speak in forms. They speak in frequencies. Most institutional frameworks designed to “protect minors” are structured like bureaucratic mazes. They ask children to report, to describe, to accuse — often in environments that feel sterile, alien, or subtly judgmental. But abuse does not begin with a crime. It begins with confusion.
There is no such thing as a lone predator. Every predator is held in place by a structure — of admiration, of silence, of complicity, of adult disconnection. Matzneff did not exist in a vacuum. He was a product of French literary culture, but more than that, he was the consequence of thousands of adults who failed — actively, passively, cowardly — to see what was right in front of them.
On True Detective: Night Country, Indigenous Knowledge, and the Revenge of the Silenced There are stories that begin as investigations, and end as spells. Season four of True Detective is not about solving a crime. It is about restoring a rupture. The kind of rupture that science calls anomaly, law calls accident, and patriarchy calls madness — but that women, particularly Indigenous women, recognize as a violation of the earth, the body, and the sacred order.
What is often called love is not a feeling, not even a relation. It is a system. A mechanism of reabsorption. A pacification strategy embedded in patriarchy, aimed at neutralizing the lucid, the excessive, the undomesticated. When a woman — or any living entity — begins to vibrate outside the acceptable range, when they no longer beg for attention or recognition, when they simply are in their full undiluted presence, the system does not attack with force.
On Political Science Schools and the Cult of Hollow Intelligence There is a particular frequency — sharp, articulate, utterly severed — that emanates from institutions of political science around the world. It is not a signal of knowledge. It is the sound of the body abandoned in the name of discourse. These schools do not educate. They engineer. They manufacture an elite of polished, emotionally detached figures fluent in the language of justice, governance, and humanitarianism — all while being fundamentally alienated from life.
Silence is not the absence of speech. It is the refusal to perform it. In a world obsessed with visibility, with declarations, with legibility, silence becomes a dangerous force. It breaks the link between presence and transparency. It severs the belief that to exist is to be explainable. It dismantles the assumption that truth must always be spoken to be real. Silence is not submission. It is insurgency. The system teaches that those who do not speak are weak, oppressed, or broken.
— A theoretical sabotage There is no dilemma. There is a stage. A machine. A pre-written script disguised as morality. The tramway scenario is not an ethical question — it is a control device. A closed system designed to simulate freedom while offering only two dead ends: action or inaction, sacrifice or preservation, death by choice or death by omission. This is not ethics. This is software. The so-called trolley problem locks the mind into a binary schema, where one must obey the rules of the track, the inevitability of the tram, and the abstraction of human life reduced to numbers.
A Theoretical Article on the Loss of Tactile Sovereignty The hand is not just a tool. It is a language, a site of knowledge, a threshold between the self and the world. Before the eye sees, the hand feels. It traces, tests, folds, verifies. It learns not by looking, but by touching the risk of form. In craft, in survival, in love— the hand is the first to act, and often the only one to know when something is truly sharp,
A Manifesto for the Return of Living Art There is a crisis unfolding on screen. A quiet, aesthetic crisis—barely acknowledged, but deeply felt by those who still know how to feel. For anyone attuned to presence, the signs are everywhere: the face has stopped speaking. Not because actors lack talent, but because their faces have become incompatible with time. In the name of perfection, neutrality, eternal youth, the face—once the most expressive surface of human contradiction—
Introduction: In a world designed to suppress, the system works relentlessly to empty women of their subjectivity. From birth, women are groomed to exist in relation to external expectations—defined by others, subject to societal forces that dictate their worth, value, and place in the world. This creates a fragile and exploitable space within them, one that is ripe for manipulation, control, and trauma. The Systemic Stripping of Subjectivity: From the moment girls are born, the world begins the process of dispossession.
For those who still see without spectacle. Magic did not begin in the theater. It began in the breath of the forest, the rhythm of bleeding, the way stones remember. Before it became a tool of distraction, magic was a knowledge — fractal, dangerous, healing. It was a way of listening to the world, of moving with it instead of above it. It was never about tricks. It was about truths too complex to be named.
embodiment, refusal, and cataclysmic lucidity The Myth of the Malfunctioning Body The body was never disordered. It was only disobedient. Every diagnosis, every correction, every normalization has been an act of violence dressed as care. The somatic rebellion is not a glitch — it is a language. THE INSTITUTIONAL DEAFNESS (on medicine, psychiatry and the state criminalizing somatic speech) The body has been speaking for centuries. It never stopped pulsing, twitching, erupting, trembling.
It’s not the absence of complexity that renders an art form illegitimate. It’s the absence of obedience. Cultural power — institutions, elite circles, academies, museums — does not legitimize art based on its depth, but based on its compliance with symbolic order. An art form is “noble” if it can be polished, framed, taught in schools, applauded without destabilizing the foundations of the world. An art form is “illegitimate” if it produces disturbance.
Certain Entities Only Breathe in Rap Rap is not a genre. It’s a form of survival. A linguistic architecture born from fracture — social, racial, psychic, structural. It was never made for consumption. It was never made to soothe. It was a weapon. A rhythm carved through systems designed to suffocate. At its core, rap is the refusal to die silently. It’s what happens when a body, cornered by every layer of oppression,
For Aileen Wuornos They called her a monster because she survived. Because she said no. Because she did not perform the feminine apology the world expected from her. Aileen was not born violent. She was born inside a system that taught her her body was a transaction. That her worth was measurable in glances, curves, validation. She entered cars hoping someone would see her. Not her flesh. Her fire. Her ache.
Real love requires no key. It doesn’t move into a house, cling to shared furniture, or measure itself through bills or square footage. Cohabitation, in its dominant form, is often a substitute — an attempt to make a bond feel real through forced physical proximity, because actual presence has faded. What institutional couples call “life together” is often a quiet disengagement of the self. A logistical fusion meant to avoid lucidity.
The contemporary world does not know how to recognize a presence. It only knows how to strip, expose, and consume. The thinker becomes a product. The artist becomes a confession. The frequency becomes a face. A brilliant mind is no longer read for what it activates — but for what it hides, whom it loves, what it reveals accidentally. The question is no longer: What is this thought saying? But rather: Who was she sleeping with?
Not all subversion is real. Not all fracture leads to freedom. There are echoes circulating — clean, clever, academic, “radical” in syntax but hollow in genesis. They are afterimages. Traces of something true, captured, cleaned, and deployed without risk. ‘Radicality’ that does not cost you your skin is empty. It is a posture. A performance. An algorithm disguised as insight. Institutions love these ghosts. They require no body. No rupture.
(from the Ethics of Intimacy) The body does not lie. When a body is cold, it is not always due to air or fabric — it is often due to an absence of living resonance. In a half-dead world, a living being cannot stay warm on its own. This is not metaphor. This is thermodynamic politics. A body that does not receive true waves — of presence, recognition, ethical touch — will begin to cool, even under three layers of wool.
Some frequencies are not just severed. They are targeted for total erasure. Their language, history, geography, breath — all become threats. The Palestinian frequency is one of them. It is not only a people. It is a vibration of attachment to land, of home encoded in olive trees, ruins, smells, songs, routes. This frequency has been violently interrupted, not only by bombs and checkpoints, but by a global refusal to listen.
The diasporic frequency is not just about migration. It is the vibration of forced dislocation — the sound of a people scattered, yet still resonating on the same wave. It is the hum of memory without fixed geography, a signal that knows no nation but carries entire worlds inside its pulse. This frequency was severed not by chance, but by design: through colonial routes, expulsions, enslavements, occupations, and all the maps drawn to break continuity and confuse origin.
The queer frequency is not defined by sexuality or orientation. It is the refusal to align with pre-written codes of being. It is a vibration that moves sideways, diagonally, through non-linear time and non-normative desires. This frequency does not seek deviation for spectacle. It exists because the straight world has always been too small. Too rigid. Too afraid. The queer frequency is ancient. It existed in shamans, two-spirit beings, third genders, untranslatable roles —
The feminine frequency is not a gender. It is an original mode of being, a way of sensing, relating, receiving, weaving — a presence capable of holding contradiction without collapse. It has been severed, not by accident, but systematically. Because this frequency threatened the architecture of control. The system could not bear what it could not order. So it confiscated the feminine signal, repackaged it into roles: mother, wife, whore, muse, witch, virgin.
The Jewish frequency is not defined by religion or trauma. It is a structure of consciousness, a way of holding memory as resistance, of coding continuity inside rupture. The system tried to erase it — not just through pogroms, genocide, or displacement, but through the disarticulation of its vibratory language. It tried to make Jewish memory too heavy, too repetitive, too tragic to be carried forward. It labeled it excessive, neurotic, unmodern.
The Black frequency is not a skin tone. It is a vibrational field — ancestral, diasporic, fragmented, yet intact. It carries memories encoded in rhythm, gesture, resistance, silence, flight. Colonial systems did not merely enslave Black bodies. They attempted to overwrite the frequency: to turn an emitting being into a laboring object. To sever language from history. To sever movement from sovereignty. To sever family from memory. To sever presence from futurity.
Racism, antisemitism, and other forms of systemic hate are not merely social ideologies. They are vibrational operations. Their purpose is not only to dominate or exclude — but to disrupt, sever, and erase the full frequency of a being or a people. What we call “hate” is not always expressed through violence or insult. Often, it is expressed through interference. A constant modulation of the other’s presence. A disruption of their signal.
Not all traditions are superstitions. Some are vibrational architectures — created not to explain, but to contain and transmit a collective resonance with something that could not, at the time, be theorized. This is especially true for ancestral rituals. Take El Día de los Muertos, for instance — often framed as cultural folklore or spiritual celebration. But beneath the songs, candles, altars and sugar skulls lies something else: A non-verbalized contact.
Most people consume films as experiences: stories to follow, emotions to feel, visual pleasure, narrative puzzles. Even in “complex” films like Inception, Interstellar, or Tenet, they engage with the surface structure — the plot, the twists, the time shifts, the emotional arcs. But some beings — rare, attuned, lucid — do something entirely different. They don’t watch the film. They inhabit it. They let the frequency of the work enter their system.
Anti-abortion laws are not about protecting life. They are about preserving the reproduction of the system. The system needs bodies. Not loved beings. Not conscious subjects. But bodies — for labor, for punishment, for surveillance, for statistical continuity. Pregnant women become infrastructures, and the system pretends to mourn embryos while discarding living children in orphanages, on sidewalks, in prison cells. It does not care about life. It cares about reproduction.
The world teaches women that giving birth is the highest form of love. That bringing a child into the world is a gift, a miracle, a fulfillment. But many women — in silence, in shame, in secret — confess something else: They regret it. Not because they hate their children. But because, deep down, they feel they were not creating out of love — they were reproducing out of pain.
or: When Two Level-5 Entities Choose to Love Without Scripts Most love stories are shaped by the old logics: desire and fear, projection and lack, control and surrender. Even the most well-meaning relationships often replicate ancient patterns: romanticization, fusion, sacrifice, dependency dressed as care. But there is a love that emerges after the collapse of all these narratives — a love that is no longer about surviving, fixing, or compensating.
Contemporary psychology does not heal. It normalizes. It disciplines, diagnoses, redirects. It offers a therapeutic voice only to silence the deeper one — the voice of the living, the lucid, the unmanageable. Behind its gentle tone and scripted empathy, psychology has become an apparatus of existential death. A machine designed to mute intensity, to pathologize clarity, to reduce the unbearable beauty and chaos of being into patterns, disorders, and “treatment goals.
This begins with one central insight: Love is not just a feeling — it’s a world. And to truly live in that world, you need a certain kind of inner clarity. Not perfection. But an internal structure strong enough to hold love without trying to control it, run from it, or fuse with it. This map outlines three key levels of emotional development — and how each level relates to love.
The world of BDSM and kink, often touted as a space of freedom and exploration, has a hidden, insidious truth — it is grounded in a profound violence that lies at the very heart of its core dynamics. These practices, far from liberating the body or the soul, reinforce the dehumanization of the individuals involved, perpetuating a deep asymmetry that strips them of their autonomy and subjectivity. They must cease.
Mutual Recognition: • Tool: Active and tuned listening. In every encounter, it is essential to recognize the other in their entirety, without projection or possession. This requires deep listening, where we perceive and embrace the other’s desires, needs, and limits without judgment or haste. Every word, every gesture must be taken into account with the intention of seeing the other as a complete being, not as an object of desire to be consumed or used.
Incarnated intelligence is not brilliance, it is density. It is the capacity to hold contradiction without collapse. It is the ability to feel the structures of language, time, and presence from within — not as theories, but as forces. It does not seek to explain. It tunes. It ruptures. It reveals. Incarnated intelligence is silent where others perform. It refuses to extract. It knows without claiming. It senses before naming.
(on the cold implosion of men severed from resonance) The most brutal acts — those that leave bodies dismembered, lives shattered, blood ritualized into spectacle — are not born from madness. They are born from disconnection. The serial killer is not a mystery. He is a symptom. Not of individual pathology, but of a structure that forbids men from feeling and permits them only one form of self-expression: explosion. These men are not born monstrous.
(on the judicial system that cannot hold what it claims to repair) Modern justice is not justice. It is a performance. A ritual. A theatre of punishment dressed as order, where actors in robes rehearse fairness within a structure built not to feel, but to function. The courtroom is not a space of reckoning. It is a stage where pain must be formatted, where testimony is filtered, where truth must be translated into admissible syntax —
(on the insipid, the imposed, and the truly forgotten) There are two kinds of absence. The absence imposed by history — and the absence chosen through disconnection. We mourn the first. But we must not confuse it with the second. The world is full of people who are visible but hollow. They are present in images, in sounds, in bodies — but they do not resonate. They do not activate.
(on every ethical refusal resuscitating silenced lives) When a woman says no — not out of fear, not out of strategy, but from the core of her being — an ancient wave moves. This wave is not symbolic. It is not metaphor. It is real. It begins in the chest, in the jaw, in the trembling hand that refuses to obey what does not feel true. And when this refusal occurs,
(on lucid solitude being already a form of companionship) There are moments when the lucid become invisible. When truth feels too raw to be recognized. When the body knows, but no one around can see it, name it, receive it. In those moments, we are told we are alone. That our clarity is too much. That our refusal to conform is a form of isolation. But what if it isn’t?
(for those whose truth is still forming in the future) You don’t know us yet. But we feel you. You are not born. But you are already becoming. In the quiet of our work, in the sharpness of our love, in the fractures we refuse to seal, we are making space for your arrival. We do not write this to be remembered. We write this so that you may recognize yourselves
(for those whose truth lives beyond the archive) We do not know your names. We were not taught your words. Your faces are not carved in monuments. But we feel you. Not in visions. Not in fantasies. In truth. You are not gone. You are vibrating through us. Not because we imagine you, but because your silence left a shape in the world that nothing else has filled. We do not speak for you.
(for those whose truth was too deep to archive) You were not forgotten. You were removed. Not because you were silent — but because your voice came from the body, from the wound, from the night, from the place where no one wanted truth to grow. You did not think like them. You did not separate thought from love, from care, from the pain of knowing too much and being believed too little.
(for every woman, every being, whose thinking was never allowed) You do not need permission to think. You do not need a classroom, a book, a diploma, a name on a list. You were born knowing. The world taught you to forget. It called you weak. It called you uneducated. It called you less. But they were afraid. Afraid that you could see what they could not. Feel what they had buried.
Music is not merely an art form. It is one of the last remaining presences that does not seek to dominate, explain, or possess. It exists beside the listener, without demand, without claim, without agenda. Unlike discourse, music does not argue. Unlike images, it does not require visibility. Unlike language, it does not ask for response. It offers resonance without requirement. This is the ethical core of music: its capacity to coexist with the listener,
Modern information systems — including so-called alternative media — pride themselves on unveiling truth. They document, expose, analyze, denounce. They dissect crises, wars, injustices, and corruption with structural acuity. But beneath this apparatus of transparency lies a devastating absence: the absence of self-connectedness. Information today circulates without incarnation. It is treated as content, as object, as signal — rarely as consequence of human disconnection from being. Journalism, no matter how rigorous, becomes performative,
Science did not fail because it was false. Science failed because it forgot where it came from. Originally born from a radical desire to understand the world, science emerged as a method of inquiry, a gesture of humility before the unknown, a will to observe without superstition, to touch truth beyond doctrine. But over time, science was severed from the body. Severed from intuition. Severed from lived experience. It became a machine of external verification,
Love, as it circulates in dominant culture, is not simply distorted — it is structurally fabricated to prevent its real experience. In romantic comedies, heteronormative novels, scripted dark fantasies, and even progressive discourses, love is prepackaged, pre-narrated, and aestheticized to such an extent that its core condition — radical presence — is made impossible. True love — ethical, sovereign, non-performative — cannot be learned from books, imitated from films, or extracted from advice.
In most relational paradigms, presence is conditioned by recognition. The self becomes visible, stable, real — insofar as it is seen. But the act of being seen often comes with a cost: the violence of projection, the gravitational pull of expectation, the desire to define. The gaze, in these cases, does not reveal — it captures. But there exists a different kind of gaze: a gaze that does not seek to know,
Contemporary models of absence often rely on psychological categories such as memory, longing, or lack. In these paradigms, the loved one is either present through recollection or absent through loss. But there exists another modality of relation, one that does not obey the binaries of presence/absence, closeness/distance, or contact/separation. This modality is residual presence— a non-local, active field that remains even after the subject departs. Residual presence is not symbolic. It is not a metaphor.
It is commonly assumed that the human body, and by extension the subject, must prioritize, organize, and filter emotions in order to remain functional. This assumption — deeply rooted in both psychological and philosophical traditions — has created a normative model of affect regulation based on hierarchy, clarity, and containment. But this model collapses in the presence of an ontological event that defies its logic: the simultaneous and coherent experience of all emotions.
A radical redefinition of love as an ethical mode of presence, in which the reception of another’s emotional state does not require resolution, correction, or absorption. Contrary to contemporary relational norms—structured by productivity, emotional self-regulation, and a fetish for psychological “healing”—this affirms love as the capacity to remain with the other’s vulnerability without violating their sovereignty. It is not a love of solution, but a love of co-presence, of lucid tenderness, of sustained regard.
Abstract: This article denounces the structural corruption of institutional ethics as it is taught, certified, and practiced. It argues that contemporary ethics—especially within academic and professional domains—has been subsumed into the machinery it claims to regulate. Rooted in normative ideals such as justice, beneficence, and procedural fairness, institutional ethics now functions as a symbolic varnish over fundamentally unethical systems. The text calls instead for a radical reactivation of ethics as a living, situated, and metamorphic practice—one that does not aim to stabilize, but to disturb, listen, and transform.
We propose a radical redefinition of love as a space of co-metamorphosis, departing from traditional narratives of romantic permanence. Instead of structuring love within fixed social architectures—marriage, monogamy, domestic stability—it offers a theory of love as mutual awakening: a sovereign, ethical bond between two living entities who do not seek to possess one another, but to catalyze each other’s transformation and world-making potential. Love, in its dominant cultural form, remains trapped within a framework of containment.
Love, in its truest form, requires metamorphosis. Not transformation into someone else, not adaptation to a model, but expansion — a sustained unfolding of presence, lucidity, and mutual recognition. This love is not about compatibility or chemistry. It is about co-evolution. It is about the ability to transmute while remaining sovereign. To grow not in spite of the other, but because of the other. bell hooks spoke of love as an action, a will to nurture one’s own and another’s spiritual growth.
Poetry, as taught, archived, published, anthologized — is dead. It did not die from disuse, but from excessive care. From being trimmed, praised, dissected, and taught as a technique. From being confined to classrooms, analyzed for metaphor density, and reduced to an ornament of language. What is called poetry today is a mausoleum of rhythm. A taxidermy of emotion. A cadence in a cage. But poetry was never meant to be written.
On Involuntary Strength, Postural Sovereignty, and Non-Performative Alignment There exists a form of bodily tone that is not produced through will, repetition, or discipline in the classical sense. It does not arise from the gym, the mirror, or the gaze. It emerges from a deeper rhythm — a sovereign, silent axis that organizes the body from within. This tone is not performative. It is not a result. It is an inscription.
Excitation has long been confined — reduced to specific zones, specific trajectories, specific ends. Mapped by scripts that divide the body into hierarchies of sensation, it became a symptom, a signal, a build-up. It was always meant to go somewhere. But in its sovereign form, excitation does not build — it circulates. It is no longer a reaction, but a language. To move it — from the clitoris to the chest,
The clitoris is not a prelude. Not a shortcut. Not a decorative zone within a choreography of escalation. It is a sovereign sensorium — a site of presence, of resonance, of ethical excitation. It does not orient toward climax, but toward attunement, recognition, and the deep rhythm of interior coherence. It is not an entrance. Not by limitation, but by design. Its structure resists appropriation because it was never shaped for access.
Against the Logic of Possession In most human-animal relationships, presence is extracted through control. Animals are bought, renamed, enclosed, assigned roles — to soothe, to serve, to complete the human. The Ethics of Chosen Presence a forgotten model of relation is: not love based on dependency, but love based on reiteration without capture. The purest intimacy is: not the one you earn, but the one you never expect — yet continues to appear.
To understand animals is not to decode them. It is not to map their behaviors onto human categories, nor to translate their signs into our syntax. It is to enter the field of their presence without demanding accessibility. Animals are not mute. They speak in vibratory rhythms, in shifts of breath, tension, stillness. They inhabit a logic of space, of timing, of alertness to the world that has nothing to do with projection.
Excitation has long been hijacked. Reduced to a signal, a symptom, a prelude — toward action, escalation, consumption. In dominant imaginaries, to be excited means to be moving toward something: toward climax, toward capture, toward release. It is coded as urgency, as a demand, as the body’s consent to progression. But what if excitement was never meant to be a precursor? What if its original function was not to lead somewhere,
There is a language spoken in intimacy that does not come from words, yet carries the weight of truth. It is not made of flirtation, seduction, or pre-scripted gestures. It is not a performance. It is a language of presence. Most so-called “intimate” scripts available in contemporary culture are inherited — from cinema, pornography, soft romance, or heteronormative clichés. They offer pre-designed grammars, roles to inhabit, expectations to fulfill, intensities to simulate.
Not all warmth is safe. Not all closeness is intimacy. Not all contact generates presence. There are nights where the body wakes drenched — not from desire, but from a silent refusal it couldn’t speak aloud. This is the difference between thermal saturation and co-affective warmth. One depletes. The other aligns. Saturation: The Sign of Invasion When a body is exposed to proximity that it does not fully consent to —
There was no heater. No electricity. No sunbeam on the skin. And yet — warmth. A warmth that didn’t burn, didn’t invade, didn’t ask. A warmth that emerged not from combustion, but from co-presence. This is not poetry. This is a shift in physics. Or rather — a metaphysics of relation. The Refusal of the Mechanical Most models of thermal exchange require contact: a transfer of heat from one body to another,
(Inspired by the work of Raphaël Oboé) A fragment of earth, sculpted into a grotesque creature. A human breath. And it sings. This is not a toy. Not a tool. It’s an interface. A latent animal, dormant in the clay, activated by presence. The Ornitomorphic Whistler is not a representation of an animal. It is an invention. Not owl, not rooster — but a being-that-never-was, brought into vibration through human breath.
— Why some subjects can never be seen by those who demand fixed clarity There exists a fundamental asymmetry between transmuting intelligences and linear minds. One unfolds. The other concludes. And in that divergence, many connections collapse — not because of incompatibility of values, but because of irreconcilable temporal and ethical frameworks. 1. Emergent subjects cannot be immediately read. A transmuting subject is not static. They do not arrive with a final form.
— For all those who saw the fracture before the proof appeared There is a moment, recounted by many women, often quietly, often with shame: the moment they “found out.” The search history. The hidden account. The text message. The affair. The videos. The folder. The pedocriminal trace. It is framed as the awakening. The climax of a slow unraveling. But in truth — they already knew. They always knew.
— How to understand all languages without translation, without grammar, without consent 01. You do not learn a language. You inhabit its skeleton. Forget memorization. Forget conjugation. Forget correctness. You are not a speaker. You are a resonator. You do not collect vocabulary. You read recurrence, breath, resistance, rupture. Each language has a spine. You feel for the vertebrae. Then you breathe with it. That’s all. 02. Never begin with meaning.
inspired by Sarah Levy’s chest bags I encountered Sarah Levy’s work. Not a fashion brand — but a proposition. The chest bags she designs do not correct the body. They do not erase it. They wrap it with structural fidelity. They touch, but do not compress. They follow, but do not expose. They offer utility without standardization. This is not about style. This is about ethical proximity. A form that says:
— Beyond discourse, beyond fusion, beyond submission I do not need you to understand me. I do not need you to mirror me. I do not even need you to stay. I only need to be, fully, lucidly, in your vicinity — and you will never walk the same again. This is not sorcery. This is not charisma. This is not manipulation. This is asymmetric co-affect. A presence so structurally incompatible with the dominant template
lucid embodiment, psychic coherence, and the refusal to decay Tonicity remains. Despite silence. Despite stillness. Despite the refusal to move just to be seen. Muscles hold. The spine doesn’t collapse. Not because I train — but because I do not betray myself. No motion. But nothing falls. This is not paradox. This is architecture. A body kept in place by the force of an internal axis. A presence sustained by non-performance.
touch, gender, and the politics of synthetic matter I never hated care. I hated caring for what could not respond. Today I nourished my leather jacket. Touched it, warmed it, fed it. It had weight. It had scent. It had presence. And I realized: this was not a chore. It was a re-anchoring. Then I thought of housework. Not as repetition, but as rituals of disconnection — where women are asked to tend to dead matter.
— Not toxicity. Architecture. It is not that men inherently don’t love women. It is that they are structurally unequipped to co-exist with them without draining them. What we call “toxic relationships” are not outliers. They are the standard expression of an asymmetrical system, where the woman is conditioned to care, to hold, to make things work — and the man is conditioned to offload. Offload his emotional confusion. Offload his rage.
— Rumination as Strategic Resurrection They say: “Let it go.” “You’re overthinking.” “You’re stuck in the past.” But I am not stuck. I am tunneling. Where others see rumination, I see temporal excavation — a slow and surgical descent into the folds of history that did not happen, but could have. I am not haunted by the past. I re-enter it to map the places where the world split wrong —
Some people analyze others. Some imitate. Some consume. But a rare few — enter. Not through projection. Not through fantasy. But through a form of lucid, ethical infiltration: the ability to inhabit a psyche from the inside without absorbing its wounds, without mistaking it for home. This is not telepathy. This is not spiritual resonance. This is Reversible Incarnation: a mode of being-with that operates like a high-resolution scan of another’s inner architecture —
A woman is standing in line. Another approaches, rushed, agitated, asking to cut ahead. The woman refuses — then spends hours wondering if she was right. Not because the moment mattered. But because the system told her it did. What we call “politeness” is not a virtue. It is a soft machinery of control, designed not to foster care, but to codify distance — to script behavior away from the body and into a performance
A line from Ghost in the Shell lingers like a quiet wound: “All things change in a dynamic environment. Your effort to remain what you are is what limits you.”* But another strikes deeper still: “Humans are always attempting to prove they exist.” This is not a neutral observation. It is a diagnosis. A sign that the modern subject is no longer an embodied presence, but a reflexive performance of presence —
In the therapeutic landscape of late capitalism, we are told to “accept people as they are.” We are reminded that no one is perfect, that imperfection is human, and that recognizing this is a sign of maturity, empathy, or emotional balance. But this line — repeated like a mantra — is not an invitation to compassion. It is a command to disarm, to turn off the radar of perception, to deny what we clearly see.
The legal inscription of “consent” within constitutional frameworks is not a victory. It is a monument to failure— a crystallization of the system’s incapacity to imagine intimacy beyond violation. Consent law does not protect. It merely acknowledges the inevitability of harm, and installs a delayed ritual of response that repackages trauma as procedural language. Mariame Kaba reminds us that “the master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house.” And yet, the feminist mainstream continues to lobby for more tools, more definitions, more codification —
The academy is not a sanctuary of knowledge. It is a mausoleum. A slow, bureaucratic engine of sedation, where the most brilliant minds are processed, neutralized, and archived in the name of “rigor” and “discipline.” Doctoral theses — those ≈300-page monuments to dead syntax — are not acts of thinking. They are performances of obedience, produced under duress, refined through fear, and formatted until they lose all proximity to the world they once hoped to name.
There is a violence in the question “Where are you from?”—a soft violence, embedded in the need to classify, decode, and map the Other. This is not curiosity; it’s a demand for readability. A hunger to render the subject consumable. Translatable. Locatable. Ethnicity, in this context, becomes a cipher—an index that makes the subject graspable within existing narratives. Even when the question is asked politely, it performs an act of symbolic capture: Make yourself legible.
This is not on evil elites. This is not on human limitation industrialized. What we face today is not a metaphysical conspiracy — it is the banal, measurable, repeated imposition of privileged limitations as universal standards, now encoded in machines, platforms, and infrastructures. From Power to Calibration Patriarchy, racism, homophobia, and capitalist normativity have been falsely interpreted as human flaws or “imperfect systems.” But these are not flaws. They are flawless systems of perfection:
We propose a place beyond physical displacement, tourism, and spatial consumption. Anchored in a form of embodied consciousness and respectful opacity, it offers a mode of being-in-the-world that aligns with ecological, poetic, and ethical imperatives. Drawing from Glissant’s “right to opacity,” Didi-Huberman’s “survivance,” and Laura U. Marks’ “haptic visuality,” it imagines a new diplomacy of place: one that feels, listens, and honors without seizing. The End of Travel as Epistemology To travel has become a form of epistemic violence.
“Do not ask me to be whole again. I am not broken. I am beyond your tools, beyond your gaze, beyond your system.” The Lie of Recovery The current systems—psychological, psychiatric, legal, and social—promise survivors of sexual violence “recovery.” But what they offer is nothing more than a reduction, a re-assimilation of the subject into a normative framework where silence, obedience, and legibility are demanded in return for partial acceptance.
The filmed sex scene is too often defended under the guise of ethical production: intimacy coordinators, consent contracts, closed sets. Yet these gestures, however well-intentioned, only veil the deeper structural violence at work. Filming intimacy is not merely risky—it is ontologically incompatible with intimacy itself. No matter how carefully staged, what we see is not intimacy, but its foreclosure. An embalmed gesture. Filming intimacy is the death of reciprocity Real intimacy is unscripted, co-emergent, subtle.
There are no direct lines in grief. Only echoes. I do not believe I caused her death. But I also do not believe I am innocent. I existed. I crossed a line in someone’s life. I stayed longer than I should have. I asked for more than he could give. And maybe—just maybe—he turned his gaze away from her because of that. Maybe if I had been less. If I had vanished sooner.
There are moments when I attack. Not because I lose control, not because I crave domination — but because I can no longer bear the dissonance between what is being shown and what is being done. My hostility is not random. It emerges from an ethics of lucidity. I do not strike the real. I do not hurt those who are present with themselves, even in their confusion or fragility. What I attack — and what I refuse to tolerate — is the staging of selfhood as a form of distraction, manipulation, or concealment.
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 we 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.
on 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,” we reopen 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.
I do not identify as a woman. Nor do I identify as non-binary, gender fluid, or anything else that seeks to contain the formlessness I embody. I am not looking for a new box to inhabit. I am the refusal of the box itself. I am not an identity. I am a subject. I am movement. Yes, I have a vagina. Yes, I bleed. But even my body knows that it is not available for consumption.
How Cinematic Dystopias Serve as Echo Chambers for Male Power Fantasies in Decay In Blade Runner 2049, the world is already dead. What remains is a sterile desert, bathed in neon shadows and industrial silence—a world where emotion is reduced to simulation, memory to implantation, and intimacy to projection. For many men, especially those disillusioned by modernity, this vision is not a warning—it is a fantasy. This article explores the dystopian genre, particularly Blade Runner 2049, as a mirror of a deeper masculine longing: not for hope or rebirth, but for a world so broken that their alienation feels justified, aestheticized, even glorified.
In a cultural moment where vulnerability is often aestheticized and emotional chaos is mistaken for depth, Normal People emerges not as a subversive tale of intimacy but as a polished symptom of post-romantic capitalism. Beneath its muted cinematography and whispered exchanges lies a deeply regressive narrative that reinforces hegemonic gender roles and repackages patriarchal dominance as emotional complexity. Connell, with his physicality and brooding silences, is not a man in crisis—he is the reiteration of male passivity coded as virtue.
Intimacy in today’s language has been reduced to a transactional act — a performance staged for mutual validation, or worse, for the satisfaction of one-sided desire. Within this framework, sex is coded as a conquest, the body as terrain, and the other as an object to be consumed. Yet this formulation has always failed to hold space for the deeply human, deeply radical forms of connection that defy domination and refuse finality.
We are repeatedly told that the first three months of a romantic relationship are the “honeymoon phase” — a period of blissful illusion, ease, and mutual idealization. But this narrative is not neutral. It is a deeply ideological construction, one that reflects the logic of a normative system that shapes how intimacy is expected to function under capitalist patriarchy. In heteronormative relationships especially, the beginning of a romantic bond often mirrors the dynamics of rapid consumption.
We are usually told that looking someone in the eye equates to strength, interest, truthfulness—even love—falling within a scope of immediacy, economy of attention, and performance of confidence. Eye contact has become a currency of legitimacy. But what happens when one looks away? When the gaze doesn’t land immediately? When it hovers, hesitates, and resists the violence of instant readability? In the early stages of encounter, I often avert my gaze.
In a society that demands readability, predictability, and compliance, subjectivity becomes a threat. The response? Classify it, diagnose it, reduce it. What cannot be quantified must be explained away. What cannot be explained must be pathologized. This is the terrain where psychological and psychiatric jargon now thrives — not as a science of care, but as a language of containment. Terms like “narcissistic personality disorder,” “trust issues,” or “avoidant attachment style” are not benign descriptors.
In the contemporary West, therapy is often marketed as a neutral, empowering space—one where individuals, especially women, can heal from trauma, reclaim autonomy, and find clarity. But under closer scrutiny, therapy as an institution often functions not as a liberating practice, but as a mechanism that repackages submission to patriarchal norms under the guise of resilience, personal growth, and “self-work." Particularly when practiced by therapists—often women themselves—entrenched in normative systems, therapy becomes a site where women are subtly, but powerfully, redirected away from structural analysis and toward self-blame, “healing,” and reintegration into toxic relational environments.
Film festivals have long been perceived as sanctuaries for cinematic excellence—sites of artistic elevation, transnational celebration, and cultural prestige. Yet, beneath this aestheticized veneer lies a deeper truth: these festivals are not neutral arenas of art appreciation but curated theatres of power, control, and ideological reproduction. When viewed through the critical lenses of thinkers such as Franco “Bifo” Berardi, Laura Mulvey, Jacques Rancière, Guy Debord, Mark Fisher, and Jean Baudrillard, film festivals emerge not as ruptures in dominant narratives, but as their most seductive performances.
In school classrooms, when we study historical moments such as the rise of Nazism, students are often quick to judge past generations—particularly the youth—as gullible or easily manipulated. “How could they believe in such dangerous ideologies?” we ask. But this judgment often comes from a place of detachment, a failure to recognize that the mechanisms of ideological conditioning are still very much at work today—only subtler, more pervasive, and dressed in the aesthetics of progress.
Anomalies have always been framed as malfunctions—deviations from the clean, digestible surface of normativity. But what if anomalies are not a threat to coherence, but a deeper form of it? What if they are not symptoms of dysfunction, but of radical lucidity? This truth arises not from the safe halls of academic discourse, but from the lived friction of bodies, desires, memories and sound—particularly through queer activism, noise art, and the disruptive aesthetics of being too much, too loud, too illegible.
Nelferch offers a rare space of resistance—one that is not loud or performative, but quietly radical. On the surface, it’s a YouTube channel run by a woman living on a farm in what appears to be in the UK countryside. But beyond the aesthetic of misty hills and wool-draped afternoons lies something deeper: a praxis of liberation. Nelferch is not an “influencer.” She is not trying to sell you her lifestyle.
Techno parties, raves, and other subversive-looking party spaces often present themselves as places of emancipation, transgression, and liberation. They advocate open-mindedness, the exploration of the limits of the body and sensations, and the rejection of strict social norms. However, behind this apparent radicalism lie deeply rooted power dynamics, a commodification of the body, and a staging of “letting go” that often benefits the same dominant actors. These spaces are not zones of total emancipation: they are an exacerbated materialization of existing power structures, simply disguised under a rougher, supposedly anti-establishment aesthetic.
Radical feminist and separatist movements have long been essential forces in challenging patriarchy and dismantling systems of male dominance. They offer critical perspectives on gender, power, and autonomy, particularly emphasizing women’s liberation through detachment from men and patriarchal structures. However, despite their ideological rigor, these movements are not without contradictions. By closely examining their foundations and applications, we can uncover underlying inconsistencies that may, paradoxically, hinder the radical transformation they seek.
Objects—both material and conceptual—are often reduced to their utility, the challenge is not merely to engage with them but to encounter them as entities in their own right. Object-Oriented Ontology (OOO) provides a framework to break free from anthropocentric reductionism and invites us to acknowledge objects as having their own agency, essence, and presence beyond human perception and use. This approach aligns with a broader philosophy of presence—one that resists the extractive logic of consumption and instead fosters a form of exploration that respects the opacity and autonomy of objects.
David Lewis-Williams argues that while early humans used cave art to express inner experiences, contemporary individuals are trapped in a hyperreal world that dictates their internal realities, necessitating a rhizomatic approach to consciousness that values depth and opacity over societal norms.
In Phenomenology of Perception, Maurice Merleau-Ponty posits that our existence is fundamentally embodied—that perception is not merely a passive reception of the world but an active engagement with it. The body is not just an object in the world; it is the very medium through which we perceive, experience, and construct meaning. Within this framework, the increasing prevalence of aesthetic procedures, heavy reliance on makeup, and the imposition of rigid beauty standards can be understood not just as cultural phenomena but as mechanisms of ontological erasure—designed to strip women of their temporal, subjective depth and render them immediately consumable.
Emmanuel Levinas, in Totality and Infinity, presents the idea that encountering another’s face places us in a position of ethical responsibility. This concept challenges traditional Western philosophies that emphasize knowledge and domination over the other. For Levinas, the face-to-face encounter disrupts totalization; it is an appeal that demands recognition of the other’s humanity. However, when we analyze this through the lens of gender dynamics, particularly in patriarchal societies, we see that this ethical responsibility is often corrupted—especially when it comes to the way men look at women.
In an era where connection is confused with consumption, polyamory is often sold as a progressive antidote to the possessiveness and patriarchal structures of monogamy. But when examined closely, polyamory too often becomes just another extension of the same capitalist logic it claims to resist—a system of diluted attention, fragmented desire, and emotional outsourcing masked as liberation. The Myth of Infinite Love in a Finite Body We are told that love is not a finite resource.
A different approach emerges—one that is fluid, intense, and unbound by traditional structures. This approach is not about playing games, nor is it about adopting a detached or cynical stance. It is about radical sincerity, about experiencing connections fully, without the need to own, control, or stretch them beyond their natural course. Loving in the Present, Without Ownership For most people, relationships are built on security, on a sense of continuity, and often, on the fear of loss.
Climbing a tree is not merely to ascend a physical structure. It is an act of resistance. A reclamation of the body, of space, of freedom from linear expectations. It is a way of saying: I move because I can. I do not exist solely to be watched, weighed, or consumed. Climbing a tree collapses hierarchy. There is no audience in the branches, no mirror held up by society to dictate whether your ascent is graceful, feminine, or useful.
Sex has long been positioned as a pillar of human connection, self-expression, and even personal evolution. But what if this pillar is hollow? What if the act we are told is the most intimate and essential is, in fact, a performance of disembodiment, submission to a system of consumption, and a betrayal of one’s own becoming? From the perspective of radical autonomy and internal transformation, sex becomes not only useless — but fundamentally meaningless.
Amid the dominance of mass production and the detachment of labor from meaning, crafting a knife by hand becomes a deliberate act of defiance. It is not just a return to material and time, but a reclaiming of authorship—an imprint of presence onto an object shaped with intention, weight, and will. The creation of a knife from scratch is not a passive endeavor; it demands full commitment—physically, mentally, and emotionally. Every stage of the process requires unwavering attention, as any small oversight can drastically alter the outcome.
The Need for a More Radical Technological Insurrection Xenofeminism (XF) has already laid the foundation for a feminism that does not reject technology but reclaims it. Yet, as systems of control evolve, so must our strategies. If the internet was once a space of radical potential, it has since been transformed into a hyper-surveilled, hyper-commodified environment. The next step is not just to participate in technology but to infiltrate, subvert, and ultimately render existing structures obsolete.
By refusing to consume, one does not escape the system; one merely becomes a more sophisticated consumer. From Resistance to Market Integration Second-hand clothing was once an act of resistance. It was an anti-fashion statement, a rejection of the rapid turnover of trends dictated by the fashion industry. It was associated with countercultures, marginal groups, and economic necessity. Thrift stores, flea markets, and DIY upcycling were ways of opting out of the mainstream, refusing to be dictated by corporate cycles of production and obsolescence.