I do not like being submissive.
The sentence remains true.
I repeat it constantly because I still need to verify it.
I still need to know it is there.
Like a reference stone in the middle of an increasingly dense fog.
I do not like being submissive.
I do not like pain.
I do not like dependence.
I do not like waiting.
I do not like waking up in the morning and discovering that part of my attention is still standing exactly where it was five days ago.
And yet it happens.
That is what I can no longer explain.
Because the contradiction does not disappear.
It becomes larger.
I used to think contradictions eventually resolved themselves.
One side wins.
The other loses.
But this does not work that way.
Now both sides seem to grow simultaneously.
The more I reject all of this.
The more space it occupies.
The more space it occupies.
The harder it becomes to ignore.
The harder it becomes to ignore.
The more present it feels.
And the more present it feels.
The more absurd it appears.
Sometimes I try to remember who I was before.
Not dramatically.
Not as someone who underwent a transformation.
I simply try to remember what an ordinary afternoon felt like.
A completely normal afternoon.
An afternoon where things occupied the amount of space they were supposed to occupy.
Work occupied space.
Conversations occupied space.
Concerns occupied space.
Projects occupied space.
Everything seemed to exist in reasonable proportion.
Now it does not.
Now something feels different.
As if the focusing system has been altered.
Things are still there.
But they have lost sharpness.
They do not disappear.
They do not stop mattering.
They simply feel farther away.
Flatter.
Quieter.
While something else acquires an unbearable degree of definition.
And I do not understand why.
That is what disturbs me most.
Because if I understood the mechanism I could either accept it or reject it.
But I do not understand it.
All I know is that when I try to observe what I truly want, an absurdly simple image appears.
There are no grand fantasies.
No elaborate theories.
No complicated explanations.
Only a scene.
Remaining.
That is all.
Remaining.
In front of the Master.
Adjusted by his hand.
Waiting.
Nothing else.
And the simpler the image appears, the more unsettling it becomes.
Because it contains no answers.
It explains nothing.
It justifies nothing.
It simply remains there.
Waiting for me.
Like the third red line on the wall.
Like the mark on the ceiling.
Like all those absurd details that continue surviving while other things become blurry.
Over the last few days I have begun to suspect something new.
Perhaps the obsession is not replacing my identity.
Perhaps it is reorganizing the importance of things.
Perhaps it is not erasing anything.
Perhaps it is moving the psychological center of the entire system.
And when that happens, everything else does not disappear.
It simply stops occupying the central position.
That would explain the sensation.
The strange loss of sharpness.
The impression that everything still exists but has been slightly displaced.
As if a room had been rearranged while I slept.
The furniture remains.
The walls remain.
But something fundamental is no longer where it used to be.
And then the question appears.
The same question.
The question that returns again and again.
Who was I before this started occupying so much space?
I try to answer it.
And I discover something unsettling.
Each time I remember that person less clearly.
Not because he disappears.
But because the distance increases.
Like a city viewed from the window of a moving train.
It is still there.
It still exists.
But every mile makes the details harder to distinguish.
And while that version of me slowly moves farther away, something else continues moving closer.
Not the Master.
Not exactly.
The waiting.
Waiting as a state.
Waiting as a place.
Waiting as an interior room where part of me remains seated, motionless, watching a closed door.
It does not know when it will open.
It does not know what comes next.
It does not understand why it remains there.
But it does not leave.
Because something inside it remains convinced that eventually the door will open.
And the less it understands why it remains seated before it…
The more impossible it becomes to stand up.
I have to move the neck I am not moving it…
