At first it does not seem important.
The rod rests on the table.
Nothing more.
It could be mistaken for any other tool forgotten among ordinary objects.
Yet once I notice it, I keep looking at it.
I am not entirely sure why.
Maybe because I know that in a few minutes it will stop being an object and become a reference point.
A measurement.
A language.
When the Operator begins, the body expects something more dramatic.
It always happens that way.
Imagination exaggerates.
Reality tends to be far more precise.
The first contact barely deserves the name.
A touch.
A light impact.
Something so small that for a moment I think that is all there is.
It is not.
It never is.
The strange thing is not the intensity.
It is the repetition.
The same path.
The same area.
The same attention.
Gradually I realize that my mind stops following large ideas and starts getting trapped by absurdly small details.
A seam in the fabric.
A shadow on the floor.
The sound of the ventilation system.
It always hums unevenly.
Two seconds.
Pause.
Three seconds.
Pause.
I had never noticed it before.
Now I cannot ignore it.
The stimulus continues.
It does not invade.
It does not overwhelm.
It simply returns.
And each return occupies a little more space than the one before.
There is a small area on my forearm where the skin seems to remember every contact.
It is not exactly painful.
It is not comfortable either.
It is something else.
A kind of compulsory attention.
As though the body placed an invisible marker there and refused to remove it.
I try to think about something else.
I succeed for a few seconds.
Then I return.
I always return.
That is what surprises me most.
Not the sensation.
The weight it acquires.
The way it pushes everything else aside.
The room remains the same.
The light remains the same.
But my perception begins reorganizing its priorities.
The sound of a chair moving in another room feels distant.
The clock feels distant.
Even my own thoughts feel distant.
Yet I can clearly notice a small accumulation of warmth in one precise spot on the skin.
Exactly there.
Not a centimeter higher.
Not a centimeter lower.
There.
The session continues.
The body learns strange things.
It learns that anticipation does not help.
It learns that tension changes nothing.
It learns that some sensations become larger the harder you try to push them away.
Eventually I stop wondering how much time has passed.
I begin wondering something else.
Why do I keep looking at the same corner of the ceiling?
There is a tiny mark beside the lamp.
It must have been there for years.
I had never seen it before.
Now I know its shape perfectly.
I could draw it.
That seems ridiculous.
And yet I keep looking at it.
The stimulus returns.
My breathing shifts slightly.
The mark remains there.
The lamp remains there.
So do I.
For a few seconds I find myself waiting for the next contact with the same attention I keep giving that tiny imperfection beside the light.
I am not moving it the neck has locked I should…
