The strange thing is that I do not think about the implements as much anymore.
For weeks I thought I did. I thought the obsession lived there, inside the objects themselves, inside the differences between them, inside the possibilities they represented.
But the closer the moment comes, the more I realize that is not it.
The paddle.
The strap.
The flogger.
They could be resting on a table.
They could remain hidden from view.
They might not even appear yet.
And the feeling would remain exactly the same.
Because what occupies my mind is not the implements.
It is the process.
The way he looks at them.
The way he decides.
The way there seems to be an entire logic behind every choice.
Sometimes I find myself imagining the exact moment.
Not the impact.
The moment before.
That seemingly insignificant second when his attention moves from one thing to another.
When he looks.
When he evaluates.
When he decides.
For some reason, that moment stays with me longer than anything else.
Perhaps because something happens there that I still cannot fully explain.
A kind of silent alignment.
As if every piece begins settling into the place it was designed to occupy.
And somehow, so do I.
I never would have imagined myself waiting for something like this.
I cannot even point to when it started.
There was no revelation.
No decision.
It simply appeared.
One day I noticed I was thinking about it.
Then I noticed I was still thinking about it.
Then I realized the idea had already begun building entire rooms inside my mind.
I still do not know exactly what I enjoy about it.
I genuinely do not.
If someone asked me right now, I would not have a clear answer.
I do not think about happiness.
I do not think about pleasure.
I think about a very specific kind of stillness.
The stillness of knowing that there is a direction.
The stillness of not having to carry every decision.
The stillness of moving slowly toward a moment that feels as though it was being prepared long before I arrived.
There are evenings when I catch myself imagining absurdly small details.
The texture of a chair.
The distance between two footsteps.
The position of a hand resting on a table.
The way a room changes when someone enters it with a clear intention.
And the smaller the detail, the more real it becomes.
As if my mind has stopped looking at the event itself and started focusing on the particles that compose it.
That is how waiting works.
It does not grow outward.
It grows inward.
It settles.
It infiltrates.
It begins as a few scattered thoughts and eventually changes the way time itself feels.
There are still days left.
Nothing has happened yet.
And yet some parts of me seem to have arrived early.
Sometimes I am reading, working, walking somewhere ordinary, and suddenly the feeling returns.
Not an image.
Not a fantasy.
Just a quiet certainty.
The certainty that the process continues moving forward even when I am not actively thinking about it.
Like silent machinery operating behind a wall.
And then I find myself imagining the same thing again.
Not the ending.
Not the outcome.
Not even the central moment.
Only the waiting.
Being there.
Breathing.
Watching.
Feeling that everything has already been adjusted.
That every element occupies its proper place.
That he understands something I do not yet understand.
And that, for once, my only responsibility is to remain exactly where I am.
To wait.
Nothing more.
And strangely enough, that feels like enough.
I have to move the neck I am not moving it the neck has locked I should…
