We live in a fabric of rules that shapes us, limits us, and convinces us we are free while pushing us in circles. Spending energy just to survive – as if the body existed only as an instrument of output. Repetition takes hold: the day that looks like the one before, the gesture that returns, the cycle that traps us. There is tiredness, yes, but there is also something that insists. Something that resists.
To say “I’m going to tell a story”, is already a political gesture. Because it means taking the floor. It means assuming there is something that needs to be said. Perhaps the story has no beginning or end. Perhaps it is made of fragments, repetitions, noises. Perhaps the body knows more than the mouth. Perhaps the body is the archive of all that cannot be told.
In this project, the body is a stage for contradictory forces: it obeys and resists, repeats and invents, tires and insists. It is a body that lives between what is imposed and what escapes. A political body, yes – but also a poetic one. A body that asks: who is in charge here? And perhaps, in the end, the answer is never where we expect it to be.
