I’m not writing it properly
I’m trying too hard
immobility wasn’t what I thought it was
it was something slower
something more shameful
the knee on the floor
not as a gesture
as a repeated mistake
contact with the tile
cold without any possible metaphor
I struggle to admit it
but the body understands before I do
there is a part of me
that stays still just to avoid being seen
it is not devotion
not control
it is exhaustion without narrative
and the system—if it exists at all—
does not shout
it only presses without speaking
the air in the room feels heavier when I don’t move
as if stillness had mass
as if it could accumulate
I feel embarrassed by how easily the body accepts the order not to change shape
and more embarrassed to admit it sometimes feels like relief
there is an exact point
between tension and surrender
where I am no longer the one deciding the weight
only recording
only enduring
only staying
and that word—staying—
sounds too clean for what is actually happening inside
there is no epic in this
only continuity
only a pulse that doesn’t dare break the surface
the knee is still there
as if it had learned the language of stone
and I keep thinking
I could stand up
but I don’t
not fully
not yet
The knee on the ground is not a gesture.
It is a transfer point.
It does not express devotion.
It regulates gravity.
Contact does not happen at once.
It is distributed.
Between the patella and the floor, the body negotiates a balance that is never announced.
The lime room remains stable.
Suspended dust does not fall.
It only changes density with the passage of air.
The tiles are cold in a way that does not depend on temperature, but on accumulated unused time.
The knee does not support.
It records.
Each contact surface leaves a trace that is not visible, but reorganizes the way the body remains.
There is no act of submission.
There is only progressive weight adjustment.
On the walls, thin cracks.
They do not expand.
They repeat old pressure trajectories.
The system does not appear.
Only continuity of micro-descents.
The patella is not a rupture point.
It is a reading point.
The body does not fall.
It approaches the ground in layers.
The air smells of wet lime.
Not as mixture.
As permanence.
The base of the skull becomes light.
Not through relief.
Through displacement of attention.
Thought does not collapse.
It slows down beyond what can be observed.
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 tibia stops the record reaching absolute zero I should
