What disturbs me most is that I no longer remember exactly when it began.
For a long time I believed I could point to an origin.
A first session.
A first instruction.
A first moment of silence.
Something concrete.
Something identifiable.
But now I am no longer sure.
Because every time I try to move backward, I find another layer beneath it.
And another beneath that.
And another beneath that.
As if the obsession had colonized the past as well.
As if it were retrospectively rewriting the story.
I do not like being submissive.
I keep saying it.
I repeat it the way someone checks a lock several times before leaving home.
I do not like it.
It does not fit me.
It does not resemble anything I ever imagined for myself.
And yet something strange happens.
The sentence never ends the discussion.
It opens it.
It always opens it.
Every time I say it, more questions appear.
Never fewer.
Why do I keep thinking about it?
Why does it occupy so much space?
Why does waiting weigh so much?
Why can five days feel so long?
Why does everything seem slightly out of focus while I wait?
Sometimes I feel that the obsession is not growing.
It is replacing things.
It does not add volume.
It reorganizes priorities.
That is why certain conversations seem farther away.
That is why some projects feel less urgent.
That is why some joys feel weaker.
They do not disappear.
But they lose definition.
Like a blurred photograph.
And then I remember that room again.
Not the center of the session.
Not the main event.
But the absurdly small details.
The third red line.
The one that stood apart.
The one that remained alone.
The one that seemed impossibly high.
Near the upper frame of the door.
I still do not understand why it keeps returning.
It was not important.
It had no meaning.
It was not part of any instruction.
And yet it remains.
As if my mind had decided to turn it into a marker.
A fixed point.
A coordinate.
Something that certifies that it really happened.
Sometimes I think obsession feeds on precisely those details.
Not the major events.
The small anomalies.
The things that never fully explain themselves.
The red line.
The mark on the ceiling.
The exact position of a shadow.
The way the door closed.
The way time seemed to move there.
Everything keeps returning.
Everything keeps reorganizing itself.
And the strangest part is that every memory produces exactly the same result.
More questions.
More depth.
More need to understand.
As if I were excavating a structure with no bottom.
Because the more I think about it, the less I understand it.
And the less I understand it, the more important it seems.
That is the part that frightens me most.
The suspicion that the obsession is no longer trying to resolve itself.
The suspicion that it is simply continuing to grow.
Room after room.
Layer after layer.
While I continue wondering who I was before all of this began occupying so much space.
I have to move the neck…
