I was born dead on August 8, 1989.
Cyanotic and hypotonic, I was intubated and resuscitated through cardiac massage.
After five minutes, my vital signs stabilized.
Over the years, this event has taken on different meanings for me. It has always been hidden in a corner of my body —an organism that kept its secret, its absolute reasons, and its unanswered questions. This first episode of my life legitimized my strangeness, defended my limits, heightened my despair and my being different and distant from the rest of the world. It sustained my disobedience.
Then I felt the need to search for myself, to declare to myself that I existed.I began asking my body to try to remember where it had been, in what language it had spoken while trying to begin its journey. I put myself in the shoes of a spelunker, an astronaut, a diver, a scientist, a researcher. I entered my sidereal craters, my rocky calcifications, the fused dimension time takes on when it doesn’t exist.I saw myself dispersed in light; I mistook myself for a stone; I hid inside my mothers, from whom there could be no separation.I began from death, by contradiction.