I never liked the idea of being submissive.
I am not even sure I like it now.
The word always felt foreign.
Exaggerated.
Like a garment made for someone else.
Something I could observe from a distance.
Analyze.
Even understand.
But never inhabit.
There are still mornings when I wake up convinced of that.
There are still moments when the word itself creates resistance.
I can still sit at a desk, think clearly, and conclude that all of this is absurd.
That it makes no sense.
That it occupies too much space.
That it should disappear.
And for a few minutes I believe it.
I genuinely believe it.
Then something happens.
Something always happens.
It can be anything.
The sound of a door closing.
A pause in a conversation.
The way light falls across a wall.
And then I remember.
I should not.
Not at that moment.
Not while I am working.
Not while someone is talking to me.
Not while I am trying to focus on something else.
Yet my mind returns there automatically.
To that moment.
That precise moment.
The first time I felt myself being adjusted.
Not dominated.
Not defeated.
Adjusted.
I remember how my back felt.
I remember the sensation of weight.
Not physical weight.
Something stranger.
As if parts of me that had always been moving had finally found a place to rest.
And for a few seconds everything else loses definition.
Tasks.
Responsibilities.
Plans.
Worries.
Everything becomes blurred.
Like a landscape viewed through fogged glass.
And then the sadness arrives.
Not dramatic sadness.
Not despair.
Something quieter.
Something harder to explain.
The sadness of discovering that it still occupies space inside me.
The sadness of not understanding why.
Because I still think it should not matter.
And yet it does.
It continues to matter.
More and more.
Perhaps because for the Operator rigor was never only about the body.
Anatomy is merely the beginning.
The real construction happens somewhere else.
In the places where a person holds themselves together.
In the small invisible tensions they use to remain who they are.
Discipline removes those tensions.
Replaces them.
Reorganizes them.
And for some reason my mind cannot forget what that felt like.
The first time the internal movement seemed to stop.
The first time the noise diminished.
The first time I felt my identity stop expanding in every direction.
As if someone had discovered a more efficient way to exist.
And that is what follows me.
Not submission.
Not the ritual.
Not the meeting.
But that specific sensation of correction.
The sensation of becoming, for a few moments, a version of myself designed perfectly for that moment.
A simpler version.
A quieter version.
A more stable version.
Perhaps that is why the weeks beforehand always feel strange.
Because life continues.
But it loses contrast.
It loses sharpness.
It loses gravity.
And the more I convince myself that everything is over, the faster the memory returns.
Each day the reasoning lasts less.
Each day the memory lasts longer.
Until the contradiction becomes a permanent presence.
A question without an answer.
A sadness without a visible cause.
An obsession that continues growing precisely because it never manages to explain itself.
And somewhere inside all of that remains a certainty.
Small.
Persistent.
Quiet.
The certainty that I am not waiting for the Master.
I am waiting to feel again what happened when everything was adjusted for the first time.
I have to move the neck I am not moving it the neck has locked I should…
