Inside the laboratory of obsession, language stops serving as a tool for explanation.
It begins serving as a method of preservation.
Words no longer resolve things.
They keep them alive.
They extend them.
They allow something to continue existing long after it should have disappeared.
At first I still believe I am trying to understand.
I still believe there is an answer somewhere.
A final sentence.
A correct observation.
An explanation capable of organizing everything.
But every time I approach something resembling a conclusion, the same thing happens.
The conclusion opens.
The answer produces a question.
The question produces another.
And the structure begins again.
Perhaps that is why certain figures return.
Not as people.
Not as authorities.
But as phenomena of repetition.
Sade appears in that way.
Not because he answers anything.
But because he continues appearing.
Like an idea that refuses to disappear.
Like an intellectual presence that returns whenever thought attempts to close a door.
His significance is not found in the answers he provides.
It is found in the questions he leaves open.
And obsession functions in exactly the same manner.
Nothing ends.
Nothing concludes.
Nothing becomes resolved.
Everything remains available to return.
The contradiction continues occupying the center.
I do not like being submissive.
The sentence remains true.
It does not disappear.
It does not weaken.
It does not change.
Yet neither does what contradicts it.
The fascination remains.
The waiting remains.
The attention remains.
Both realities stay active simultaneously.
Neither succeeds in removing the other.
I try to choose.
I try to decide.
I try to organize the pieces.
But every attempt becomes new material for the obsession.
As if the very act of analyzing it were keeping it alive.
Excitement no longer resembles excitement.
It resembles a permanent occupation.
Something that remains switched on.
Something that continues functioning.
A constant activity operating behind every other activity.
It does not demand attention.
It absorbs it.
It does not ask for space.
It reorganizes it.
The room changes then.
It no longer feels like a room.
It feels like a collection of returning details.
A pause.
A glance.
A distance.
A line.
A position.
Small things that return again and again without being called.
And the more they return, the more difficult they become to ignore.
Until finally the strangest sensation appears.
The sensation that obsession no longer needs to be actively thought about.
Because it has found a way to continue operating by itself.
And when that happens, language no longer describes what is occurring.
It becomes the place where it occurs.
The neck I am not moving it the neck has locked I should…
