Since leaving my motherland, the histories that were once grounded now float like a giant balloon. Where is breath from? Where should breath go? What is held in breath?

Inspired by the physicality of balloons, this thesis explores breath as sonic material that carries memory, moves through bodies, and resonates across spaces. The balloon becomes a skin that holds breath: a force inhaling trauma, ritual, and intimacy. When released through mouth and latex, breath conjures alien, untranslatable voices that hiss and hum. It is a breathing and sonic practice, not of positioning or grounding the floating self, but of exploring nomadic ways of being in, of, and as a void that resonates between bodies.

A balloon can never feel grounded like stone or trees. It fl oats above the ground, detached from the soil where all histories lay, disconnected from the roots that weave the context of this foreign land. It is oppressed by its own fragility. It thinks itself not qualifi ed enough to connect to the ground. It is missing reference, missing origin, missing belonging. A balloon full of my breath becomes an isolated space, a heterotopia. It is anonymous, unreferenced, unrecognized. It has nowhere to go.

The balloon is not a symbol, nor a representation of my breath or body. It is an extension of my skin that holds my breath and becomes part of me. It is not a newborn. It is tension and struggle that once lived inside me, now vomit through my mouth. It is a long-existing trauma, before language, and before its sound was ever heard.

Balloon becomes a geographical site

Breathing is not just biological; it is political and geographical. It is brutally honest for me to give access to the world to legitimately observe my struggle between each breath. It is a vulnerable pause where my breath becomes a geographical site, exposed to whatever the world wishes to step on, define, or explain.

It begins to appreciate what it means to be a void that could float and remain anonymous. It learns that speaking in alien, unintelligible languages is an act of resistance. Not every struggle needs to be articulated. Not every history needs to justify its origin. It starts to wander without expectation, to drift without direction, and to dream without memorizing where it began.