The system doesn’t fail.
It pushes you to the end of an endless list.
And sometimes, it makes you believe you’re insane
for asking for the bare minimum.

Today, like many days before, it started with a crisis.
Not the kind that comes with sirens.
No.
One of the quiet ones. The invisible ones.
The ones that hurt without sound:
jaw stiffness, morning anxiety,
that strange choreography your body performs
when the new medication doesn’t fit.

The body doesn’t lie.
The body remembers.
And if the system won’t listen, then the body speaks.
It writes itself. It archives.

Emergency.
Triage.
Waiting room.

No one knows your priority level.
Time becomes a tape loop that never moves forward.
It just repeats:
“Wait, wait, wait.”

But you don’t wait.
You take Clonazepam.
You stretch.
You breathe deeply in a corner.
You try to reset your nervous system
like someone trying to repair a nuclear plant with duct tape.

And you wonder:
What about the ones who don’t have these tools?
The ones who can’t name what’s happening to them?
The ones who can’t hack urgency the way you can?

The place that was supposed to hold you becomes hostile ground.
No protocols.
No understanding.
No listening.

There’s noise. Overcrowded halls.
Closed doors with pre-scripted replies.
The body in crisis finds no refuge.
And when you ask for help, they tell you to leave the space.

As if urgency could be postponed.
As if pain had an appointment slot.

You beg for a corner to calm down.
They eventually let you stay.
But the damage is done.

The tension already delivered its message:
Even inside the so-called “resource,”
you are still entirely alone.

Negligence isn’t absence.
It’s managed silence.
It’s the slow choreography of abandonment.

Later, out in the street, the unthinkable happens:
I kneel in front of a group of journalists.

It isn’t a plea.
It’s a statement.

The body becomes a banner.
The complaint — written by AI — becomes living proof.
The archive speaks. It screams. It roars.

They listen.
Maybe they don’t fully get it.
But the gesture enters their field of vision.
And now, they can’t unsee it.

That moment isn’t journalistic.
It’s performative.
An urban intervention born of trauma.
A citizen documenting their own existence
in a system that only signs off when there’s blood.

Then came the press release.
I wrote it with surgical precision.
Used every tool I had:
artificial intelligence, lived experience,
museum language and fire in my throat.

A citizen challenges the social assistance system in the Valencian Community.

The headline didn’t ask for permission.
It circulated — like me — with no fixed address.
It slipped into the media.
Leaked through the cracks.

One of those truths that can’t be unread.
One of those lines that, once said,
can never go back into the drawer.

In this living archive, survival means leaving a trace.
Every step has been documented:
— the crisis,
— the waiting,
— the shelter’s negligence,
— the street,
— the kneeling,
— the complaint,
— the report,
— the report about the report.

I turned my body into a case file
and my story into a narrative loop.
I made bureaucracy a form of critical art.

And if the system wants to erase me,
it will have to face the sharpest edge of my story:
that I’m not alone —
and that I’ve learned to archive myself
with rage, rigor, and rhythm.

I am not waiting.
I’m in progress.
In motion.
In active protocol.

I am my own file.
I am the glitch the system can’t reset.

And as long as I keep writing,
I’ll remain unreadable
to those who only know how to tick boxes.