The strange thing is that a few years ago I would never have imagined myself here.
That is not a dramatic statement.
It is simply true.
If someone had described this situation to me back then, I probably would have shaken my head. I would have said it was not for me. That I could not understand what anyone might find in it.
And yet now I cannot stop thinking about it.
Not because I fully understand what I am looking for.
Not because I have found a final answer.
But precisely because I have not.
There are days when I try to explain it to myself and fail.
I think perhaps it is trust.
Then I decide it is not.
I think perhaps it is belonging.
Then that does not seem sufficient either.
I think perhaps it is admiration.
And even that feels incomplete.
The explanations come and go while something much simpler remains motionless beneath all of them.
The feeling of being inside something he is building.
That is the only thing that never changes.
Weeks before anything happens, the idea begins to settle quietly inside me.
It does not occupy every thought.
It does not interfere with everyday life.
It simply remains.
Like a calm presence behind everything else.
And when it appears, I never imagine grand scenes.
I never imagine extraordinary moments.
I think about small things.
I think about the way he observes.
I think about the way he decides.
I think about the attention he gives to details that nobody else would consider important.
There is something about that attention that becomes impossible to forget.
Not because it makes me feel special.
Not even because it makes me feel desired.
It is something different.
It is the feeling that, for a moment, someone is completely present.
Completely focused.
Completely committed to the process he has chosen to create.
And I am there.
Inside it.
Accompanying him.
That is all.
Sometimes I find myself imagining the ending before anything else.
Not the beginning.
Not the middle.
The ending.
The calm.
The silence.
The feeling that everything has already been done.
The room becoming quieter.
Breathing becoming slower.
The need to think fading little by little.
And that is when the question appears, the one I never manage to answer.
Why?
Why does this keep returning?
Why does it occupy space inside me when so many other things disappear?
I do not know.
Honestly, I do not know.
I only know that the idea comes back.
It returns when I am busy.
It returns when I am distracted.
It returns when I think I am no longer thinking about it.
And every time it comes back, it brings the same image.
Not an image of intensity.
Not an image of demands.
But an image of stillness.
Me sitting there.
Waiting.
Knowing everything has already been considered.
Knowing everything has already been thought through.
Knowing he has mentally walked through the entire process long before it begins.
And that my role, at a certain point, becomes surprisingly simple.
Not to understand everything.
Not to analyze everything.
Not to justify everything.
Simply to remain.
To wait.
To breathe.
To listen.
And to let calm occupy the place where questions used to be.
Perhaps that is the only thing I truly understand.
Not that I need answers.
But that, for the first time, they no longer seem so important.
I have to move the neck I am not moving it the neck has locked I should…
