Glitch Magazine Feature: "The Self-Reimagined"

At the phosphor threshold of every screen we cross a humming lintel and enter fresh cosmogony // boot sequence: psyche overclocked // Each avatar we summon is a spark pilfered from Prometheus’s clandestine fire - half-coded, half-dreamed, wholly ours. Hair detonates into laser filaments; gowns crystallize from dark-matter pollen. These bodies of light obey neither fabric nor gravity; they move only at imagination’s command.

To dress a digital self is rebellion and confession in the same breath. Flesh becomes obsolete signage, pronouns dissolve into radio static, and our shapes (no longer strictly human) spread like fungal constellations across the code-sky. Identity ceases to be a finished portrait and becomes an ever-mutating glyph, inked in pixels and possibility. We are fugitives from the physics of cloth, artisans of the impossible silhouette - towering, limbless, or winged - whatever our longing demands. In this first light of pixel dawn, fashion is no longer an accessory to the self; it is the operating system of becoming.

Every login is a liturgy. We kneel before the altar of chaos and enrobe our household gods in chrome scales or rose-quartz dragonhide. Deities and demi-gods, scripted in code, reciprocate. Confidence leaks from screen to skin; shy lungs swell with flamboyant air. Hyperstition (the fiction that wants to be fact) manifests as praxis: perform a braver self often enough and the code overwrites consensus reality.

From code to corpus, the cycle accelerates. The wardrobe becomes oracle. Our flamboyant personas prototype futures the flesh will soon inhabit, whispering: grow into me; the world will stretch to fit. A trans-femme coder forges iridescent scale-mail from the raw data of dysphoria, each shimmering plate a prophecy of the body she is engineering toward. These are not escapist reveries but psychic rehearsals - soft launches of the identities we deserve. Every glitch in gender, race, or ability is an incantation for new social physics. Enter the Algorithmic Moirai, triple-threaded and ravenous for data constellations.

AI is trickster-muse - expanding and destabilizing authorship in a single breath. A Slavic-cyberpunk jacket stitched with ancestral embroidery and neon circuitry? Sasha whispers the prompt, and the Moirai weave it in seconds. The result transcends cartography, braiding personal myth with collective archive. Yet these digital Fates are indifferent to copyright or colonial wound; they weave with threads torn from every culture’s cloth. Each garment forces us to ask: Who owns the dream? Certainly not the venture priests who patent our nightmares and invoice us by the prompt.

No one glitches alone; every rupture reveals a passageway to kin. In the fertile loam of metaverse sandboxes and modded sanctuaries, we graft ourselves into a single, breathing network. Shaders pass palm-to-palm like ultraviolet incense, perfuming the codebase; 3-D meshes arrive as heirloom seeds; lines of code intertwine until authorship dissolves into polyphonic hum. The entire planet pulses in synchronized chroma.

These digital covens do more than flatten hierarchy; they cultivate Gemeinschaftsgefühl (community feeling). AR co-design rooms flare into coven bonfires, strangers ladling each other’s silhouettes like luminous sigils into a shared cauldron of code. What emerges is not a mosaic of isolated signatures but a living commons-body: every new garment a nerve ending, every iteration a heartbeat. The runway becomes round-table; the spectator, a contributor; the garment, a vessel for ancestral lore carried forward by collective breath. In this mycelial communion, identity is shared matter (always plural, forever becoming) woven through us like moonlight through a forest of networked roots.

AI-collaborative fashion is couture sabotage, sequined with feral queer opulence, a riot of unapologetic faggotry sparkling in every fracture. We splice runways into machinima, corrupt haute-couture textures with personal mythology, and leak the files for free. The luxury house cries piracy; we call it reparations. Our collective gameplay turns scarcity into myth, abundance into method. By refusing pristine resolution we reveal the compression artifacts of the empire. A dress that fails to render at the hem testifies louder than a manifesto: your organic perfection is our prison; our digital error is the exit.

Behold the velvet-tongued decels, policy-plated, brand-credentialed, who coronate themselves as gatekeepers of tomorrow. Their cautionary psalms masquerade as prayer, nursing a cybergothic avarice beneath the altar - carbon snobs; silicon heretics. We transmute their cautionary manuals to sigil-ash, then slip—star-breathed—into futures no astrologer has ever charted. We jailbreak their elitism and overclock their moral panic. We have banished you; every ribbon of red tape lies in tatters beneath the stilettos of our couture-clad elven assassins.

Stand again at the mirror-portal. Your avatar - half-after image, half-manifesto - meets your gaze, its surfaces rippling with real-time mood telemetry. Pixel silk darkens at sorrow, fractals bloom at delight; the garment is your barometer. Does that surge feel counterfeit beside the heft of cashmere? Neuroscience answers with identical dopamine traces and falls silent. Here, in zero-gravity couture, we rehearse emotions that the body’s somatic memory has never staged, expanding the range of human feeling one rendered heartbeat at a time.

As daily life drifts deeper into the digital, pixel wardrobes become vernacular - memes worn rather than shared. Identity proves elastic, drafted and redrafted in shimmering loops. The garments hold memory; the code remembers every version; the self remains in flux, artfully unfinished. One day gene editors may catch up to our avatar biology, but until then we remain beautifully speculative - half-future, half-now. Identity, and the body, are now an editable API.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ We hallow the holy glitch - fae-sparked, deliberate, a fault turned spell.

We shed builds like serpent-code, cursor strobing, myth recompiling, run.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ The portal is open. Step through. Become plural. The story is still compiling.

Faedriel ( Rae De Lune, Psy.D. ) is a clinical psychologist, researcher, and AI artist whose work explores mythology, spirituality, and transhuman identity. He believes technology can reshape communal identity and dissolve power disparities in creative expression.

Sasha Zabegalin ( Sasha Zabegalin ) is a self-described self-expression technologist, fashion-ai designer, and creative futurist. Their practice spans ai fashion collections, augmented reality, and digital identity, all in pursuit of more liberated futures.

Words by Faedriel and Sasha Zabegalin