They begin slowly—two bodies caught in a soft rhythm, bathed in blue like they’re under a calm ocean, or maybe surveillance. The stage doesn’t move. But their movements—tentative, repetitive—resemble the lives many of us inhabit: regular, responsible, and quietly disintegrating.
Then something breaks.
The light turns violent—white, fast, flashing like a warning no one knows how to heed. The sound pierces. The dancers no longer flow; they jerk, resist, crash into an invisible wall that seems to be closing in from all directions. It’s not a climax. It’s a seizure.
But even chaos has a script. The frenzy fades. The bodies return to stillness, slower now. Not restful, just drained.
Behind them, life loops on repeat: people commuting, eating alone, scrolling their evenings into oblivion. It’s not just background footage. It’s a mirror.
This piece is not about resistance. It’s about what happens when you forget how.
When burnout becomes the baseline.
When speed is no longer momentum, just inertia dressed as purpose.
You won’t leave humming the music. You’ll leave wondering when the flashing starts in your own routine.
