What irritates me most is that he probably does not think about it nearly as much.
That is the part I can never digest.
I am still here.
Days later.
Replaying useless details.
Remembering things that should never have remained in memory.
And meanwhile I imagine that for him it was simply another session.
Another process.
Another adjustment.
Another afternoon.
I do not like admitting that.
Because the more space he occupies inside my head, the more ridiculous the whole situation seems.
I do not want to be submissive.
I never wanted to see myself that way.
I dislike the word.
I dislike what it implies.
I dislike discovering how deeply another person can alter the way you perceive the rest of your life.
And yet something shifted.
Something small.
Something I still cannot locate.
I remember one particular session.
I do not remember everything.
That is the strange part.
The important pieces are blurry.
The exact instructions.
The conversations.
Even parts of the process itself.
All of that feels distant.
But I remember the floor.
I remember it perfectly.
I remember spending an absurd amount of time staring at it.
Because it was the only thing I could do.
Wait.
Remain there.
Without knowing how much longer it would last.
Without knowing what exactly he was evaluating.
Without knowing when he would decide the process was complete.
And during all that waiting I kept looking at the same things.
A collection of dust near a seam in the floor.
A hair trapped beneath the edge of the baseboard.
And a tiny fragment of transparent plastic.
A nearly microscopic triangle.
One of its corners was broken.
I never understood where it had come from.
But it remained there.
For minutes.
Maybe hours.
I do not know.
Time became strange.
And now, months later, I still remember it.
The plastic.
The dust.
The crack in the seam.
While far more important things have faded away.
That is what worries me.
Because I am beginning to suspect that obsession works like this.
It does not settle inside the dramatic moments.
It settles inside the empty spaces.
The waiting.
The seconds where nothing happens.
The moments where you simply remain there while someone else continues something that seems far more important than you.
Sometimes I try to reconstruct the session.
I try to remember exactly what he did.
What he said.
What he corrected.
But memory refuses.
Instead I remember sounds.
A brief metallic noise.
A chair moving a few inches.
Something being placed on a table.
The sound of his breathing when he was concentrating.
And above all, the intervals.
The silences.
Because the silences were worse.
During the silences my imagination worked alone.
And it still does.
That is where everything began.
Not in control.
Not in instructions.
Not in obedience.
In waiting.
In discovering that part of me had become attentive to the next correction.
The next adjustment.
The next moment when he would intervene again.
And the more I tried to convince myself that none of it mattered, the more important it became.
That is the contradiction I cannot resolve.
Because I still reject it.
I still feel resistance.
I still think I do not want this.
But the image returns.
It always returns.
Not the image of a powerful Master.
Not the obvious fantasy.
Something much smaller.
Much worse.
The image of myself staring at the floor.
Looking at that tiny broken plastic triangle.
Waiting.
Waiting.
Waiting.
While everything else slowly lost definition around him.
The neck locks in an angle that is no longer technical but definitive I have to move the neck I am not moving it the neck has locked I should…
