Ref: #001_GENESIS
TRANSLATING THE SOUND OF THE UNDERGROUND FOR THE MASSES, WITHOUT BETRAYING THE BLOOD.
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The runway taught me perfection. The rave taught me truth. I exist in the distortion between the two.
(This is my story)
There was a moment when I realized I wasn’t in my body anymore.
Fucking hell, I was running it.
Not dramatically. Not with hatred. With efficiency. The way you run equipment you depend on. You keep it clean. You keep it useful. You don’t ask it unnecessary questions.
The body stopped being a place and became a surface. Something to calibrate. Something that carried meaning for other people before it carried sensation for me.
I didn’t ask how it felt.
I checked how it read.
Was it calm enough. Sharp enough. Neutral enough. Did it hold the right tension. Did it transmit control. I adjusted posture like volume. I adjusted breath like lighting. Everything tuned for legibility.
I remember being touched and thinking about angles.
I remember pain arriving and being annoyed by it.
I remember hunger feeling inconvenient, like a badly timed notification.
That’s when I understood: consent had quietly changed sides.
Fucking hell, it had.
The body learned to obey.
Pain turned into data. Fatigue into a scheduling issue. Pleasure into something optional, indulgent, slightly embarrassing. I was proud of how little I needed. How much I could override. How reliable I had become.
I didn’t hate my body.
I trusted it less and less.
Sleep stopped repairing anything. Food lost texture. Sex became distant, mechanical, sometimes absent. I lived in my head like a control room, watching the body execute tasks below me.
Precise. Functional. Replaceable.
And here’s the dangerous part: nothing broke.
Shit, I didn’t even feel it.
A body treated as an interface doesn’t revolt. It complies. It goes numb where it has to. It stays operational so the system doesn’t stall. You don’t collapse — you disappear from the experience.
I started saying yes automatically. To schedules. To expectations. To situations that required me but didn’t include me. Boundaries blurred because interfaces don’t have boundaries. They’re designed for access.
CUT.
The tragedy isn’t that the body fails.
It’s that it keeps working —
while you’re no longer home inside it.
Fucking hell, I’m not even in my own skin anymore.
Shit, I’m just a fucking machine.