This morning I woke up and the first thought arrived immediately.
I do not want to be submissive.
It did not even appear as a reflection.
It appeared as a certainty.
As something that had already been waiting for me before I opened my eyes.
I do not want to be submissive.
I remained lying there looking at the ceiling.
Without moving.
Without getting up.
Watching a horizontal line in the paint running from one side of the room to the other.
There was nothing special about it.
It was just a line.
A small irregularity.
A slight change in texture.
And yet I kept looking at it for forty minutes.
Perhaps longer.
While following it with my eyes I kept repeating the same thing.
I do not want to be submissive.
I do not like it.
It does not fit me.
It does not make sense.
It was not an emotional argument.
It was an evaluation.
As if I were reviewing evidence.
Analyzing data.
Trying to locate the error.
Because something does not fit.
It never has.
I do not like pain.
I do not like dependency.
I do not like waiting.
I do not like uncertainty.
I do not like the sadness that appears when too many days pass.
None of that should lead toward greater desire.
And yet it leads exactly there.
That is the piece I cannot solve.
While looking at that line across the ceiling I began to feel something resembling relief.
As if I were finally reclaiming territory.
As if I were separating myself from all of this.
As if I were finally closing a door.
And then something happened that has begun occurring far too often.
The more convinced I was that I was moving away.
The closer it seemed.
It did not happen immediately.
It was not an image.
It was not a fantasy.
It was something stranger.
An orientation.
A direction.
As if my entire attention slowly began turning once again toward the same point.
And the more I resisted.
The more pressure appeared.
As if I had placed a stopper over something that had been accumulating for too long.
At first it seemed to work.
Then it began pushing.
And eventually it simply exploded.
Not physically.
Mentally.
Suddenly the need returned with absurd intensity.
Stronger than before.
Much stronger.
And that is exactly what I do not understand.
Because if I truly wanted it, it would make sense.
But I still wake up saying no.
I still try to move away.
I still try to explain it.
I still try to construct a rational version of what is happening.
And every attempt produces the exact opposite effect.
As if the obsession were using my own arguments as fuel.
I am beginning to suspect that the problem is no longer the Master.
Not even the next session.
The problem is that something inside me has learned to orient itself toward that experience.
And when I try to correct that direction it does not disappear.
It only accumulates more pressure.
Until it eventually returns with greater force.
That is why the waiting has become so difficult.
Because I am no longer waiting for an event.
I am waiting for the end of a tension that never fully resolves.
And the longer it remains unresolved.
The more space it occupies.
The more rooms it builds.
The more connections it generates.
Sometimes I wonder whether the obsession continues growing because I cannot understand it.
And other times I begin to suspect something worse.
That perhaps it continues growing precisely because I keep trying to understand it.
As if every question opened a new door.
As if every attempt to escape excavated another level.
As if resistance itself had become part of the mechanism.
And then I return mentally to that horizontal line crossing the ceiling.
Forty minutes looking at it.
Repeating no.
Repeating that it was over.
Repeating that I would not continue.
Without realizing that something was still growing behind those words.
Silently.
Patiently.
Waiting.
I have to move the neck I am not moving it…
