What unsettles me is not the darkness.
It is remembering the darkness.
Days have passed.
Perhaps weeks.
And yet I still think about the exact sensation of the blindfold closing.
Not the object.
Not the fabric.
The moment.
The precise instant when the world disappeared.
Because the world did not disappear all at once.
It compressed.
As if someone were slowly turning an invisible valve.
Less light.
Less distance.
Less reality.
Until only pressure remained.
Breathing.
The body.
And the certainty that the Master was still there.
I could not see him.
I could not hear him properly.
And yet he seemed more present than anyone I had ever known.
That is what I do not understand.
I do not understand why I keep thinking about it.
I do not understand why I keep comparing everything to it.
Sometimes I am sitting in a café.
Sometimes I am talking to someone.
Sometimes I am walking down a crowded street.
And suddenly a question appears.
A ridiculous question.
Could I remain motionless right now?
I do not want to.
Yet the question appears.
Could I remain like this for ten minutes?
Thirty?
An hour?
Then I realize I am no longer listening to the conversation.
I am no longer looking at the street.
I am no longer paying attention to anything.
I am remembering.
Remembering the sensation of being corrected.
Not punished.
Corrected.
As if for a few hours someone had taken the noise inside my head and placed it in order.
And when that order disappears, something inside me seems to remain behind.
The strangest thing is that I keep telling myself the same sentence.
I do not want to be submissive.
I repeat it constantly.
I do not want to be submissive.
I do not want to need this.
I do not want to think about this.
I do not want to wake up thinking about this.
I do not want to fall asleep thinking about this.
And yet every denial seems to function as fuel.
As if the obsession grows by feeding on the very thing that tries to reject it.
Sometimes I remember absurdly small details.
The pressure of the blindfold.
The texture of the floor.
The temperature of the air.
The way my shoulders remained still.
The slowness of each breath.
And then it appears.
The third red line.
The isolated one.
The one near the upper part of the door frame.
The other two formed a pair.
That one did not.
It stood alone.
As if it belonged to another logic.
Another system.
Another moment.
It was not important.
It meant nothing.
And yet it remains.
More defined than many people.
More defined than many places.
More defined than entire conversations.
Sometimes I close my eyes and I can still see it.
Exactly where it was.
Exactly the same.
And then the sadness arrives.
Not violent sadness.
Not dramatic sadness.
Something quieter.
Heavier.
The sadness of not knowing when it will happen again.
The sadness of not knowing when I will find that clarity again.
Because outside that room everything seems to blur little by little.
Weeks.
Conversations.
Plans.
Names.
Everything loses resolution.
Everything becomes slightly indistinct.
But certain memories remain untouched.
The door.
The darkness.
The stillness.
The waiting.
The third red line.
And the impossible feeling of remaining there while the rest of the world ceased to exist.
Perhaps that is the real obsession.
Not the Master.
Not obedience.
Not the process.
But clarity.
The absolute clarity of a moment that continues existing long after it has ended.
I have to move the neck…
