Beautiful and Uncoded.
Lately, I’ve been thinking about fragmentation—about what it means to be unfinished, in motion, unresolved. Maybe it comes from years of shaping cultural experiences, from witnessing artists who embrace contradiction, or from moving between worlds, always translating, always adapting. Or maybe it’s just the nature of being human.
But the world we live in doesn’t seem to leave much room for that. The digital age has brought us closer, made life more efficient, but it has also flattened complexity, forcing everything into binary logic: on or off, good or bad, success or failure, 1 or 0. A logic that seeps into how we see ourselves—if we are not whole, complete, perfectly formed, then we must be nothing.
No wonder we have unconsciously embodied fragmentation! We are living through the greatest identity stretch in history. On one hand, we operate within a rigid binary system, where everything must be categorized as either one thing or another. On the other, we are witnessing the rawest, most powerful movements of our time—the fight for trans rights, Black Lives Matter, the #MeToo movement. Movements that reject this artificial simplicity and embrace the full spectrum of existence.
Since the dawn of the digital era, the philosophy of "a whole unit or nothing" has gained power over every aspect of the human condition. Binary code (1, 0, 110, 10)—the foundation of our increasingly automated world—has subtly reshaped our perception of identity. We've come to believe that if we are not whole, complete, or intact, then we are nothing.
The success of these global countercurrents is a rebellion against the idea that only what fits neatly into predefined boxes deserves to exist. They remind us that identity, justice, and human dignity do not conform to an algorithm and reveal the pressure this “0/1, nothing or complete” logic has placed on the human psyche.
We have unconsciously adopted this digital logic as a lens through which we attempt to decipher the human condition, but life was never meant to be read in ones and zeroes. The improvisation of Miles Davis' Kind of Blue doesn’t follow a rigid script—it bends, breathes, and lingers in the in-between, where meaning is made not through precision but through feeling. Pina Bausch’s dancers do not move in straight lines; they fall, collapse, and rise again, embodying the rawness of longing and loss. The brushstrokes of Basquiat refuse containment, chaotic yet deliberate, fragments coalescing into something whole without ever erasing their ruptures.
Through this binary framework, anything broken, wounded, or uncertain carries an inherently negative connotation. But being human is more like jazz, more like dance, more like an unfinished canvas—it means breaking apart and reassembling, hurting and being hurt, losing and finding oneself—again and again, in ways that defy the cold certainty of a machine.
We do this to ourselves unconsciously, perhaps because if we could spare pain for those we love, including ourselves, we would. The binary code has given us medical breakthroughs, security systems, and family video calls. It has structured much of modern life, so we assume that applying its logic to our own pain might provide an answer. We invest billions into artificial intelligence, hoping that this 010101 language—this manmade “all or nothing” programming—will eventually confirm what we already know deep down: That we are not broken. That we are loved. That we are light. That we are capable of extraordinary, delicate, human things—laughing, thinking, playing, crying for both joy and sorrow. That we matter. That we have the right to love ourselves in the way we most desperately need to.
In the end, we are simply trying to make sense of ourselves in the easiest way possible. But the truth is, our identity is not something that can be coded into 1s and 0s. It exists in the vast intersections between body, mind, soul, psyche, and the unconscious—the multidimensional planes that hold us together, in all our beautifully imperfect humanity.
