Living in this laboratory under the pressure of the system does not feel like being inside something, but like having already been translated into a version where the body still exists but no longer matches itself.
I feel my bodily matrix not receiving instructions, but reinterpretations. The mechanism does not act on me: it corrects me as if I had always been incorrectly written. And the strangest part is that this correction has no beginning, only continuity. As if my form had been revised before it ever existed.
In Sadean engineering, the norm is not imposed: it is remembered. Not as human memory, but as a structure insisting it has always been this way. The body is not intervened; it is rewritten in a margin where original and revision can no longer be distinguished.
I am a reception as a misaligned architecture, a monumental marble ashlar that does not know whether it is being built or simply adjusted toward a more stable version of itself. Identity does not break: its layers drift out of alignment, as if every thought arrived a few millimeters late relative to its own intention.
There is no possible resistance because there is no clear point of contact. Only an internal friction between versions of the same gesture.
It is an uncomfortable lucidity to notice how my pulsing inertia does not stop, but changes meaning while it happens. The body does not cease moving: movement itself loses definition.
The system does not saturate me from the outside.
It reorganizes me from within what was already written without my knowing.
My breathing does not hold air, it holds coherence. And sometimes that coherence fails, not as an error, but as a version mismatch.
Then everything becomes slightly unrecognizable.
Even the most intimate thing.
Even the “I”.
It does not disappear.
It desynchronizes.
And that desynchronization is the only thing that remains stable.
The neck locks in an angle of absolute structural data I am not moving it the neck has locked I should…
