I do not like being submissive.
The sentence keeps appearing.
Sometimes in the morning.
Sometimes before sleep.
Sometimes during absurd moments when I should be thinking about something entirely different.
I do not like being submissive.
And yet the sentence no longer functions as an answer.
It only functions as a door.
Because every time I repeat it, more questions appear behind it.
If I do not like it, why does it occupy so much space?
If I do not like it, why do I keep thinking about it?
If I do not like it, why do other things seem to lose their sharpness when too many days pass?
The more I try to move away from those questions, the closer they appear.
As if the obsession had learned to use my resistance as fuel.
A few days ago I caught myself remembering something that did not even seem important.
Not a session.
Not a command.
Not a specific event.
Just a sensation.
The sensation of remaining.
The sensation of being exactly where I was supposed to be.
Without searching for anything.
Without pursuing anything.
Without deciding anything.
Simply remaining.
And that is what confuses me.
Because for most of my life I believed freedom meant movement.
Choosing.
Changing direction.
Keeping every door open.
Now something else has appeared.
Something much harder to explain.
The idea that there is a strange peace in stopping the search for a moment.
Not because someone imposes it.
But because something inside me seems to rest there.
And the more I try to understand it, the less I understand it.
The obsession no longer feels like an emotion.
It is beginning to feel like an architecture.
A structure that continues expanding even when nobody is working on it.
One room generates another.
And that room generates another.
And behind every door there is a new question.
Sometimes I think about the way the Master observes.
Not as a person.
But as a function.
As a perspective.
As a way of looking at the world in which everything seems to acquire sharper edges.
And then I remember something that feels deeply uncomfortable to admit.
Many times I do not miss the Master.
I miss the clarity.
Because there are moments when the rest of the world seems covered by a thin layer of fog.
Conversations continue.
Days continue.
Obligations continue.
But something loses intensity.
Like a photograph that is slightly out of focus.
And then the memory appears.
Not necessarily of something that happened.
But of a possibility.
The possibility of remaining in front of the process.
Waiting.
Still.
Present.
And suddenly everything seems to regain its edges.
That is what frightens me.
Because I do not understand it.
It does not fit the story I had about myself.
It does not fit the person I thought I was.
It does not fit the ideas I always had about submission.
And yet it continues growing.
Like a root that keeps moving underground even when nobody can see it.
Perhaps that is why the obsession becomes larger every week.
Because it is no longer trying to convince me.
It is no longer trying to win an argument.
It is simply occupying space.
Slowly.
Patiently.
Like a structure building itself.
And sometimes I wonder whether the Master occupies a place inside that structure.
Or whether the structure itself adopted the shape of the Master in order to become visible.
Because the more I observe it, the harder it becomes to find the point where it began.
And the harder it becomes to find the origin, the deeper it seems.
As if it were not made of memories.
As if it were made entirely of layers.
Layers beneath layers.
Rooms behind rooms.
Corridors leading to other corridors.
And at the center of all of it I do not find an answer.
I find only the same sensation.
The same waiting.
The same contradiction.
I do not like being submissive.
And yet something inside me continues walking in circles around that idea.
As if it were searching for an exit.
And as if, secretly, it were afraid of finding one.
I have to move the neck…
