Pleasure as Biological Fuel

In classical biomechanics, movement is often understood as a matter of efficiency or the overcoming of resistance. But why should an organism expend energy at all to resist entropy and gravity? Why not simply curl up and drift into an eternal sleep?

My answer is this: I believe there is an intrinsic reward for movement.

The Pleasure of the Wave

Movement is worth it. The pleasure of movement is a signal from the nervous system that the system is operating coherently. When the wave flows through the horizontal organism without frictional loss, the brain releases those messengers that tell us: this is right. This is life. Without this pleasure-driven impulse, there would be no reason to risk the complexity of verticality at all. The depression of curling inward corresponds to the silencing of this movement-pleasure—when the system registers only danger and effort.

In water, movement is almost weightless, a play with the resistance of the medium. On land, we search for this lightness in vain.

Movement as Homecoming

The more one understands the oceanic principle, the more movement becomes a kind of homecoming. One no longer fights the ground but uses it as a base for the wave. When everything comes together, the nervous system enters a state of maximal safety and, at the same time, maximal playfulness. This is the joy of being in action.

Our spirals emerge from lateral flexion, from the transformation of fish into tetrapods. The fins were positioned laterally and migrated beneath the trunk of early terrestrial animals as limbs. That is why the system rotates—and why it rotates best in the horizontal. Lateral flexion plus horizontal safety—that is the paradise within us.

A Closer Look

From Fish to Tetrapod

In fish, lateral flexion (the side-to-side bending of the spine) is the primary driver of movement. As fins evolved into limbs and migrated beneath the body to support weight on land, this lateral energy had to be redirected. This was the birth of rotation. Because the spine retained its flexibility, the former side-bending transformed into a rotational wringing during locomotion (often described as spiral dynamics). With every step we take, our torso effectively twists to coordinate the forces of the limbs. In the horizontal plane, the system operates free from the massive compressive force of gravity that burdens us in vertical stance. It is the mode in which the original fluid fish movement is most efficiently translated into force and spatial progression. Those who understand rotation as emerging from lateral flexion no longer use their joints as hinges, but as dynamic spirals.

The Birth of the Spiral

The spiral is a coiled wave. When we walk, the pelvis winds against the ribcage—this is the legacy of fish locomotion, now functioning as torsional force in the vertical. That this system rotates best in the horizontal is a direct consequence. In the horizontal (crawling, swimming, or quadrupedal stance), the spine is freed from direct axial compression by gravity. Lateral flexion flows freely into rotation, without the nervous system having to guard against disc injury or vertical instability.

Lateral flexion—that primordial fin stroke—has not disappeared. It has merely transformed. Today, it is the hidden engine within us: a coiled wave that carries us through life as a spiral.

Our anatomical architecture is an archive of evolution. When fins became limbs and moved beneath the trunk, a biomechanical revolution occurred. The lateral deflection of the spine—the primary propulsion in water—had to be repurposed for life on land. Lateral flexion became torsional force. Every torsion in the vertical carries the risk of axial compression; the brain continuously maintains protective tension to preserve the integrity of the intervertebral discs. In the horizontal, the spine is relieved of the burden of body weight. In this state, lateral flexion can flow freely again. The spiral unfolds without the resistance of compression. Here, the primordial safety of the fish body meets the coordinative mastery of the land animal. The nervous system releases its protective tension, and movement returns to its origin: it becomes effortless.

When both components come together—the release from gravity and the smooth rotation of the spiral—a state emerges that I describe as biomechanical ecstasy. It is the moment when movement ceases to be work and instead becomes a self-sustaining process. In ecstasy, the body uses the elastic recoil of its fascia like a stretched rubber band. Energy circulates. We experience horizontal safety in the biomechanical paradise.