What worries me most is not that I think about the Master.
It’s that every time I try to understand why I think about him, I find something else underneath.
As if my mind has stopped being a room and become a mine.
I dig.
I find a layer.
I examine it.
I try to explain it.
And underneath it there is another.
And another.
And another.
A few days ago I could still say, “I’m only remembering the session.”
Now I’m no longer sure.
Because the session ended.
The memory should have degraded.
It should have become an anecdote.
An archive.
Something finished.
But that didn’t happen.
Instead of fading, it started branching.
It started growing backward.
Like roots.
Like a buried infrastructure I had never noticed before.
I don’t like being submissive.
I still think that.
I think it sincerely.
I think it when I’m alone.
I think it while walking.
I think it while working.
I think it while trying to convince myself that all of this is ridiculous.
And yet every time I say that sentence, another question immediately appears.
If it’s true…
why does it occupy so much space?
I don’t understand the obsession.
And precisely because I don’t understand it, I keep observing it.
And by observing it, I discover details.
And the details create new questions.
And the questions create more attention.
And the attention feeds the obsession.
It is a perfect mechanism.
A closed system.
Sometimes I try to remember the Master and realize I’m no longer remembering a person.
I’m remembering a structure.
A sequence of gestures.
A way of remaining.
A sensation of waiting.
A specific mode of existence.
And that disturbs me more than anything else.
Because people should be forgettable.
Structures are not.
Structures remain.
I have started noticing something strange.
The sadness I’ve been carrying these past days doesn’t seem to come from absence.
It seems to come from comparison.
Everything else feels incomplete because it has been measured against something I cannot properly describe.
Conversations feel shorter.
Hours feel lighter.
Everyday concerns seem made from cheaper materials.
Not because the Master is more important.
But because my attention has been reorganized around a question I cannot answer.
Who exactly was I before I started thinking about this so much?
Every attempt at answering reveals new layers.
At first I thought it was curiosity.
Then I thought it was desire.
Then I thought it was dependency.
Now I am no longer certain of any definition.
Because every explanation creates another depth beneath it.
As if the phenomenon always exists one level lower.
Always beyond reach.
And the further away it seems, the more I need to keep digging.
That is what is truly obsessive.
Not the answer.
The depth.
The constant suspicion that I still haven’t reached the bottom.
And perhaps never will.
Because every new layer contains another version of myself examining the previous one.
And each version seems slightly closer to the Master than the last.
Not through obedience.
Not through submission.
And yet it continues to grow.
Day after day.
Layer after layer.
Question after question.
Until the obsession stops feeling like an emotion.
And starts feeling like a geography.
I have to move the neck…
