The contradiction has grown so large that it no longer feels like a contradiction.
It feels like a room.
A room I live inside.
The more I try to resolve it, the more space it occupies.
The more space it occupies, the harder it becomes to remember what thinking about anything else used to feel like.
The excitement reached a point long ago where it stopped feeling like excitement.
Now it resembles pressure.
A presence.
A constant tension.
As if something has remained open.
As if a door was pushed a few inches and never fully closed again.
The strange thing is that I keep asking the same questions.
I do not like being submissive.
I do not like the word.
I do not like the dependence implied by it.
I do not like the way it reorganizes the mind.
I do not like discovering how much space one person can occupy inside another.
And yet none of that changes the result.
The questions open.
They never close.
Every answer immediately becomes fuel for the next question.
Why do I keep thinking about it?
Why do I keep returning?
Why does that room remain sharper than events that should matter far more?
Why do I remember absurd details?
Why can I reconstruct distances?
Why can I remember the exact position of certain objects?
Why can I remember the waiting?
Above all, the waiting.
Not the beginning.
Not the ending.
The waiting.
Remaining already adjusted.
Having nothing to do.
No task.
No decision.
No initiative.
Only remaining.
Only waiting.
Waiting for the Master’s process to reach its conclusion.
And the more I think about it, the less I understand why that simplicity contains so much weight.
The obsession increases.
The excitement increases.
Understanding decreases.
And that lack of understanding feeds the obsession again.
It is a perfect mechanism.
A circuit that seems to consume its own questions.
Eventually I am no longer remembering a session.
I am remembering the act of remembering it.
Watching my own observation.
Analyzing my own analysis.
Building layers upon layers until the original event becomes buried beneath an avalanche of interpretation.
Yet beneath all of it something extremely simple remains.
The waiting.
The presence.
The feeling that everything had been suspended.
The feeling that nothing needed to be resolved yet.
Perhaps that is why it is so difficult to leave behind.
Because the rest of the world demands conclusions.
Demands decisions.
Demands movement.
That room demanded nothing.
Only remaining.
And now the mind circles the memory the way a tongue returns again and again to the same tooth.
Not because there is an answer there.
But because the absence of an answer has become impossible to ignore.
The obsession grows.
The excitement grows.
The contradiction grows.
And somewhere at the center of it all the same motionless image remains.
Not pain.
Not fear.
Not even desire.
Only waiting.
Only the unbearable certainty that, even now, part of me is still there.
Already adjusted.
Already still.
Still waiting.
I have to move the neck I am not moving it the neck has locked I should…
