I did not sleep.
I do not even remember genuinely trying to.
I remember looking at the clock.
Then looking again.
Then realizing forty minutes had disappeared without leaving any explanation behind.
The room was completely silent.
Yet I kept hearing something.
Not a voice.
Not an order.
The memory of a breath.
His.
So calm it was almost absent.
So steady it felt as though it belonged to something other than a person.
I remember thinking that a breath like that could only exist inside someone who never questioned what he was doing.
Then I spent an hour thinking about that alone.
Nothing else.
The way the air entered.
The almost invisible pause.
The way it left.
Nothing more.
And that is where the problem begins.
Because I do not like being submissive.
I still dislike the word.
I still feel resistance whenever I hear it.
I still think I should want something else.
My own life.
My own center.
My own direction.
And yet I spend entire nights thinking about remaining close to a process that does not even belong to me.
Thinking about staying there.
Quiet.
Present.
While he works.
While he adjusts something.
While he builds something.
While he completes something.
Not because he needs me.
Not because he asks me to.
Simply because some part of me seems incapable of leaving before everything is finished.
And that frightens me more than it should.
Because I am beginning to notice small absences.
Small erosions.
Small empty spaces.
Someone asks me what I did three days ago.
I have to think about it.
Someone asks me what I want a month from now.
No answer comes immediately.
But I can remember perfectly the slight angle of his head before he continued.
I can remember the rhythm of his breathing.
I can remember the exact moment he stood completely still while observing something.
Absurd details.
Useless details.
Details that occupy space inside me as though they matter.
And the more space they occupy, the less space seems left for me.
Perhaps that is why I could not sleep.
Because all night I felt the same resonance.
The same frequency.
As though some part of me was still waiting for something.
Not a reward.
Not approval.
Not even interaction.
Only continuation.
Only the certainty that the process was still moving forward.
The Operator would call it resonance.
He would speak about frequencies.
He would speak about structures vibrating until they discover a stable configuration.
I experience it in a simpler way.
A more uncomfortable way.
There are nights when my own life feels like noise.
And his process feels like silence.
And some part of me wants to move closer to the silence.
Not because I am happy there.
But because it feels stable.
Solid.
Real.
Like a note sustained for so long that it begins to feel permanent.
Sometimes I wonder when it actually began.
What the first moment was.
Which insignificant detail eventually grew large enough to occupy so much space.
I cannot find it.
Because it no longer feels like a memory.
It feels like a structure.
Something that has slowly reorganized internal pieces.
Without hurry.
Without violence.
With an unbearable patience.
And while I remain awake staring into the darkness, I realize something that is difficult to admit.
I do not want to become someone else.
But I do not want to leave the place where that transformation seems to be happening either.
I want to remain.
Simply remain.
Until it is finished.
Until the final adjustment finds its place.
Until the last resonance fades.
Until the final correction disappears into the structure.
And only then.
Only then.
Attempt to remember who I was before an almost inaudible breath began occupying so much space inside my mind.
I have to move the neck I am not moving it the neck has locked I should…
