Writing.
Not the act itself.
The exposure.
I look at it like a laboratory I shouldn’t be visiting this often.
Marquis de Sade appears again.
Not as a historical figure.
More like a mental mechanism I can’t tell if I’m using or if it’s using me.
What bothers me is not the content.
It’s the rhythm of how I stay inside it.
As if something in me is drawn to repetition.
Structure.
System-like thinking.
And that doesn’t match the version of myself I usually claim.
There’s a strange moment when I close the text.
It’s not relief.
It’s suspension.
As if something keeps running without me.
I don’t say it out loud.
But I notice it.
I catch myself returning to certain lines.
Not academically.
That would be cleaner.
More acceptable.
It’s something else.
Slower.
More uncomfortable.
A kind of attention that sticks.
And the worst part is this:
the more I tell myself it’s just theory,
the more obvious it becomes that I’m not reading from the outside.
I’m inside the language.
Without deciding to enter.
I feel ashamed admitting it like this.
It sounds exaggerated.
But it doesn’t feel exaggerated in the body.
It’s subtler.
More physical, even.
Like a kind of mental stillness I didn’t choose.
And then comes the silence.
That silence after everything is closed.
When I’m not doing anything.
Not because I want to.
But because there’s no clear transition back.
And in that moment I observe myself strangely.
As if there were a version of me still reading even when the text is gone.
I don’t know if that’s normal.
I don’t know if I should worry.
I only know it happens.
And I keep it here because I wouldn’t say it the same way out loud.
Humidity does not appear as excess.
It appears as evidence.
Not as something happening on the skin, but as something the skin begins to register without prior permission.
The body does not interpret it.
It incorporates it.
A slight shift in air temperature.
A different density at the edge of the neck.
The surface of the skin ceasing to be a surface.
There is no event.
Only persistence.
The lime room does not preserve bodies.
It preserves states.
The suspended plaster does not fall.
It remains at the threshold of falling.
As if the air had learned not to complete its own movements.
There are cracks in the wall, fine, irregular, without apparent intention.
They do not look like damage.
They look like old decisions.
Humidity does not communicate.
It insists.
It accumulates in places where attention does not fully reach.
Under the jaw.
On the back of the hands.
Along the line where breathing stops being visible.
The body begins to notice what it previously ignored.
Not because it has changed.
But because it is now being heard differently.
There is no system.
No registry.
Only a sequence of small variations that never fully become language.
The problem is not what happens.
It is what stays a few seconds longer than necessary.
The air smells of wet lime.
Not stone.
Not dust.
Something that has not yet decided what it is.
I have to move my neck.
I don’t move it.
It is not an order.
It is a sentence arriving too late.
The base of the skull becomes an unnecessary point of attention.
The rest continues.
I have to move my neck I am not moving it I should the base of the skull a porous alabaster surface the taste of lime filling the glottis the pulsing inertia of the pore stops the record reaching absolute zero I should
