Lately I think a lot about silence.
Not ordinary silence.
Not the absence of noise.
I think about that silence.
The one that appeared when there was nothing left to do.
When the instructions had ended.
When the position was correct.
When the body stopped searching for alternatives.
When all that remained was waiting.
I am surprised by how much I remember it.
Because I never thought it mattered.
I always believed that events were what mattered.
Conversations.
Decisions.
The things that change the direction of a life.
Not silence.
And yet my memory now seems to work differently.
I remember the silence more precisely than many conversations.
I remember the waiting more clearly than entire days.
I remember the sensation of remaining still while time continued moving around me.
And I do not understand why.
I do not like being submissive.
The sentence is still true.
I say it and it still sounds true.
I do not like it.
It does not feel like me.
It does not fit the person I thought I was.
But something happens afterward.
It always happens.
The sentence ends.
And the obsession continues.
As if both things coexist without cancelling each other.
As if the contradiction had learned how to breathe on its own.
Over the last few days I have started noticing something else.
I do not only miss the Master.
I miss a particular form of attention.
A particular form of presence.
The sensation that, for a few hours, the world became extremely simple.
Not easy.
Simple.
There was a direction.
There was a structure.
There was a reason to remain.
Outside of that everything multiplies again.
Decisions.
Options.
Doubts.
Plans.
Thoughts.
Layer upon layer.
But not there.
There seemed to be a kind of reduction.
As if a hundred different questions were replaced by a single one.
And perhaps that is why the sadness appears afterward.
Because when the session ends everything expands again.
Everything fragments again.
Everything disperses again.
And then days like today arrive.
Days when I talk to people.
Work.
Walk.
Answer messages.
And still feel a certain distance.
As if I were observing my own life through slightly fogged glass.
It is not suffering.
Not exactly.
It feels more like a loss of definition.
And then the details return.
Always the details.
The third red line separated from the other two.
The door.
The waiting.
The silence.
And suddenly everything feels more real than the present.
That is what I cannot explain.
I do not like being submissive.
Yet I keep thinking about that room.
I keep thinking about the waiting.
I keep thinking about the strange peace of remaining there.
And the more I try to understand it, the less I understand it.
And the less I understand it, the more space it occupies.
I have to move the neck…
