I am beginning to suspect that the Master no longer occupies a place inside my mind.
I am beginning to suspect that my mind occupies a place inside the Master.
The difference sounds absurd.
Yet every day it becomes harder to ignore.
There was a time when I could point to the origin of all this.
A conversation.
A session.
A command.
A specific memory.
Something that had happened.
Something that belonged to the past.
Now I can’t.
Because the Master no longer behaves like an event.
Events end.
Sessions end.
Conversations end.
Even waiting should eventually end.
But this does not.
It keeps growing.
It keeps reorganizing itself.
It keeps producing new layers.
New connections.
New questions.
And the strangest part is that it seems to do so without my help.
As if it had developed its own metabolism.
I do not like being submissive.
The sentence still appears.
I repeat it constantly.
Like a reality check.
Like someone touching a wall to make sure it is still there.
I do not like being submissive.
I do not want to be submissive.
I do not understand why I think about it so much.
I do not understand why it occupies so much space.
I do not understand why sadness appears after too many days.
I do not understand why everything feels slightly dimmer away from that presence.
And yet every one of those questions produces exactly the same result.
More obsession.
Never less.
That is what makes it so disturbing.
Because logic should wear it down.
It should reduce it.
It should dismantle it.
Instead the opposite happens.
Misunderstanding acts like fertilizer.
The less I understand, the more it grows.
The more it grows, the more layers appear.
The more layers appear, the more impossible it becomes to find a bottom.
Sometimes I feel as if I am excavating.
And every time I think I have reached the original layer, I discover another one beneath it.
And another.
And another.
As if the obsession had no core.
As if it were composed entirely of depth.
Over the last few days I have noticed something even stranger.
I no longer think about the Master actively.
I find him already present inside thoughts that seem completely unrelated.
I am looking at a street.
And he is there.
I am reading something.
And he is there.
I am listening to someone speak.
And he is there.
Not as an image.
Not as a fantasy.
Not as a memory.
But as a perspective.
As an angle from which everything reorganizes itself.
That is what is beginning to feel organic.
The sensation that I am no longer remembering something.
I am living inside something.
The obsession feels less and less like an emotion.
And more and more like an atmosphere.
Like weather.
Like air pressure.
Like a permanent condition that alters every other phenomenon without needing to make itself visible.
Perhaps that is why the sadness is so difficult to explain.
Because it does not feel like sadness.
It feels like a loss of orientation.
As if there were a direction my mind is constantly expecting.
And when it cannot find it, everything becomes blurrier.
More distant.
Quieter.
Not because the world has lost intensity.
But because something inside me is still waiting for a continuation.
And that continuation never fully arrives.
It only approaches.
It only announces itself.
It only leaves traces.
That is why the waiting does not disappear.
Because the waiting is no longer directed toward a date.
Or a session.
Or even a person.
The waiting has become a permanent function.
An invisible organ.
A second respiration.
And the more I try to understand it, the more I begin to suspect something I can barely tolerate admitting.
Perhaps the obsession no longer revolves around the Master.
I have to move the neck I am not moving it the neck has locked I should…
