The excitement reached a point long ago where it stopped feeling like excitement.
Now it feels more like pressure.
A presence.
A constant tension.
As if something remained open.
As if a door had been pushed a few inches and never completely closed.
That is what I cannot explain.
Because I keep trying to explain it.
And every attempt makes it worse.
At first I thought I was remembering the session.
Now I suspect the session is remembering me.
It appears while I work.
It appears while I read.
It appears when I try to think about anything else.
Not always as an image.
Sometimes as a background sensation.
A frequency.
An occupation.
As if part of my attention had been requisitioned and never returned.
The strange thing is that I no longer know what I am pursuing.
It does not seem to be pleasure.
Pleasure would be simpler.
It would have boundaries.
It would begin.
It would end.
This does not end.
It remains.
And the longer it remains, the more questions it generates.
I do not like being submissive.
I still think that.
I do not like it.
I do not want it occupying this place.
I do not want it to have this importance.
I do not want it reorganizing the way I think.
And yet it does.
That is the contradiction.
The contradiction is the real center of everything.
Because if I liked it, I could understand it.
And if I understood it, perhaps I could leave it behind.
But neither thing happens.
I do not like it.
I do not understand it.
And it keeps growing.
Entire nights are consumed by absurd details.
The interval between two breaths.
A position.
A period of waiting.
A feeling of remaining.
I remember things that should not matter.
And I forget things that should.
My mind seems convinced that there is something hidden inside those memories.
Something I still have not seen.
Something that would explain everything.
So I return.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Searching for an answer.
But every return creates more questions.
Never answers.
And open questions create excitement.
Excitement creates attention.
Attention creates obsession.
Obsession creates more questions.
The circuit feeds itself.
Sometimes I think what truly obsesses me is not the experience.
It is the impossibility of resolving it.
The feeling of having reached an equation where every variable keeps changing.
The feeling of being permanently a few inches away from understanding.
And never arriving.
Because there is something unbearable about the absence of resolution.
Something that occupies space.
Something that demands space.
Something that gradually pushes everything else aside.
And in the end I discover that I am not remembering an experience.
I am remembering a wait.
A wait that never ended.
And perhaps that is why it keeps growing.
Because part of me is still there.
Doing nothing.
Understanding nothing.
Only remaining.
Waiting for something to finally close.
I am not moving it the neck has locked I should…
