I don’t know when I started associating safety with this kind of stillness.
I shouldn’t like it.
In fact, while I’m writing this, I feel a slight contradiction in my stomach, like the body remembers this isn’t natural, but at the same time doesn’t want to leave the state it puts me in.
Safety, for me, is not something that soothes. It is something that tightens.
It is a voice-less command felt at the base of the neck when the environment begins to get too heavy.
And the strangest part is this: I don’t like it when it starts… but I struggle to leave it once it is happening.
Today, for example, the process began with something minimal.
A shift in the Operator’s posture.
It wasn’t obvious. Just a slightly longer pause than usual before continuing. The kind of pause that, in any other context, would mean nothing.
But my body noticed it.
It didn’t interpret it.
It noticed it.
And that’s where the first internal adjustment appeared, as if something invisible began reorganizing the space between my thoughts so there would be no gaps.
This should bother me more.
But instead, I found myself focusing on small things.
The texture of the air.
The exact sound of my own breathing when I try not to change it.
The weight of my tongue inside my mouth, suddenly too present, like an object.
It’s silly, but once I start noticing those details, everything else stops scattering.
I don’t know why I keep looking at that.
It isn’t interesting.
And yet it is the only thing that doesn’t dissolve.
The Operator’s process doesn’t feel like an external decision. It feels like an internal reorganization of what I am allowed to ignore.
And that is what unsettles me.
Not because it hurts.
But because it feels… stable.
There is a part of me that tries to resist the framing, that wants to remember I should want to leave, to return to some kind of normal, diffuse freedom without edges.
I thought it would be different.
I thought there would be clear rejection, or clear relief.
But there is no clarity.
Only this concentrated kind of attention that appears when I can no longer disperse myself.
It’s almost as if my mind keeps staring at a single point because it doesn’t know what else to do with the rest.
I don’t remember when I started doing this.
At first it was seconds.
Then minutes.
Then the sense that interrupting it required more effort than staying.
And here comes the part I can’t explain without contradiction:
I don’t find it pleasurable… but I also don’t want it to stop halfway.
Not out of obedience.
Not out of logic.
But out of a kind of need to see the process complete itself, as if leaving it unfinished would leave something incorrectly sealed inside me.
And that unsettles me more than the process itself.
Because it means this is no longer about being inside or outside.
It is about not wanting something to remain incomplete.
The Operator continues.
I continue.
And somewhere between the two, safety stops feeling like protection or pressure.
It becomes continuity.
A continuity I don’t know if I like.
But one that, once it begins, I don’t want to abandon halfway.
Only at the end.
Always at the end.
I need to move my neck—I am not moving it—the neck has locked—it should…
