The body is no longer perceived as volume, but as a plane trying to reorganize me from within.
I don’t know when that shift happened.
There was no decision.
Only drift.
As an Operator —though I’m no longer sure whether this name describes something external or internal— I observe the bodily matrix as if it were a system of writing that corrects itself each time I think it.
Sade appears here not as a figure of authority, but as mental architecture: the idea that the body can be read without redemption, only as structure exposed to its own logic.
That is what becomes obsessive.
Not the idea of submission.
But the sense that there exists an endpoint of the process where everything stops being interpreted.
Where the system becomes complete.
And in that completeness, something in me stops arguing.
I don’t want it.
But I imagine it.
And that image is stronger than any counter-reasoning.
During the day I try to maintain a normal life, a life that can explain itself without fractures.
But in certain moments, when I am doing nothing, my mind returns on its own to that “end of the process”.
Not as a stable desire.
But as an incomprehensible pull toward a form of closure.
And the more I try to reject it, the more defined it becomes.
Not as an external idea.
But as an internal structure that insists.
As if thinking about it were already part of it.
The contradiction is not emotional.
It is structural.
One part of me says: this is not me.
And another part observes that sentence as if it already belonged to the same system it tries to deny.
That is where obsession appears.
Not as pleasure.
But as insistence of the unresolved.
As if my mind could not abandon a model until it has been carried to its final form.
Even if that final form makes no sense.
Even if there is nothing there to understand.
The neck I am not moving it the neck has locked I should…
