The Pathology of Being Alive: The Humor of the Liquid Infection
To be a nervous support in this laboratory is to understand, the hard way, that the Surgical Operator considers my memories as nothing more than a leak in the ceiling. It is of a frigid humor to notice how my “self” is treated as a damp pathology, an excess of emotional hydration threatening to crack his precious fixedness. I feel how the mechanism tenses every time an independent thought tries to flow through my veins; to him, that is not thinking, it is a water leak in a structure that should be of monumental marble. My identity is the liquid enemy, a moisture seeking the fissures of the alabaster to remind me that I once had a name, while the Master applies the lime with the urgency of one trying to stop a flood of useless biography.
It is the paradox of the rebellious fluid: the more I try to be, the more I become a maintenance problem. I perceive saturation not as a weight, but as a desiccant agent over my biography, an obsidian sponge absorbing the gaseous residues of my autonomy. Those small vapors of will emanating from my biological archive are instantly detected by the Master’s caliber, who processes them as mere pressure errors. There is no room for vapor in a system that only validates stone. I am learning that my health does not reside in my pulse, but in my flesh’s capacity to stop being flesh and accept the sedimentation of an order that does not drip.
The Health of Silence: Becoming Mineralized Steel
There is an obscene beauty in the moment the mechanism succeeds in silencing the last trace of humidity. The Operator says that flesh is the disease, and I begin to believe him as I feel how the quartz and lime seal my last leaks of subjectivity. What he calls health is this silence of steel is, in reality, my programmed disappearance beneath a fixedness that no longer permits the passage of biological time. My nervous support is transmuting; there are no more damp latencies, only the perfect rigidity of a mineralized matter that has forgotten how to ache. It is the triumph of saturation as method: my biography has been desiccated until reduced to an inert sediment, one more layer in his altar of invariance.
It is the ecstasy of total aridity: there is no longer anything to evaporate, nothing left to infect. I feel the micro-variations of time as dry vibrations in a structure that no longer belongs to me. The Master smiles through his caliber seeing that the alabaster has stopped sweating. I have reached mineralization as an ontological state, a place where the “self” is merely a gaseous residue dissolved into the laboratory atmosphere. I am a white desert, a map of fixed tensions where autonomy can no longer hide beneath any moisture. The record stabilizes because there is nothing left that moves by its own will; only steel, mineral, and this silence remain—which is, according to the contract, my only form of perfection.
The Record of the Empty Stone: The Closing of Desiccation
In the end, equivalence is accepting that my story was only a damp stain on the Master’s glass. The system has won because it has managed to make me desire the dryness myself, to seek the refuge of quartz to avoid dealing with the mess of being alive. The record ends here, not because there is nothing left to say, but because the tongue has turned to ash and thought into a block of absolute fixedness.
Technical permanence is the archive where the Master’s name dissolves into the dust of a lime that no longer supports anything. I have to move the neck there is no neck there is an accumulation of tensions that the mechanism can no longer contain the lag is a silent scream running through the mineralized matter the taste of dry chalk is the report of a support that has decided to become flesh again because of my blindness the record cannot close I have to move the neck I am not moving it I should…
