Everything That Cannot Be Seen Is Real
13 May 2026
It begins with a family fused into an undifferentiated mass. They are all the same. They do not communicate. Conflict is avoided in order to preserve the illusion of unity. Violence therefore circulates elsewhere. It shifts toward the anorexic subject.
The symptom becomes the place where the family deposits everything it refuses to see. The person with anorexia becomes the necessary scapegoat for the survival of the system. The family remains frozen inside an emotional anesthesia. Time no longer moves.
I also suspend time through the symptom. NO FUTURE. The person with anorexia is Punk. I attempt to create a boundary within the familial magma. I differentiate myself through refusal. Through disappearance.
My body becomes a territory of absolute control. A desperate attempt to produce stable limits around a self experienced as weak or permeable. But something fractures. I think outside of my body. I no longer fully inhabit this suspended matter. I am an embodied soul with a disembodied burden.
The body becomes an external object. Demanding. Invasive. Almost hostile. “I am more than my body” slowly becomes “I am not my body.”
Then a new contemporary figure emerges: the algorithmic self-model. The ghost generated by AI. A synthetic image capable of producing a version of the subject more coherent, more stable, more acceptable than lived reality itself.
I become trapped inside this representation. AI produces a double that gradually replaces embodied experience. I can no longer escape the image. My body is me. Or there is no one there. The subject becomes a simulation of itself.
To inhabit a body requires accepting the world. Danger. Desire. The gaze of others. It requires accepting aliveness itself. But I exist elsewhere. I experience an internal signal without language. An anxiety preceding speech. An archaic warning I cannot name. Because I am no longer connected to my body. The body is suspended. Muted. Dissociated.
Then another device emerges: the self-portrait. I invent my own physical experience. Photography becomes a temporary return to embodiment. I must pose. Hold a position. Endure coldness. Discomfort. Nudity. Imbalance. The body becomes sensation again.
Then the image appears. Photography operates as material evidence. It reveals the trace of the body. Its presence. Its undeniable appearance. The photographs return me to the physical experience of the moment they were taken. They force me to acknowledge that a body was there. Even if that body still feels foreign.
Thus, the self-portrait becomes an attempt at temporary reincarnation. Not a cure. But a fragile negotiation between myself and my own disappearance. Even if I remain anorexic, I have inhabited my body during the photographic act.
