Living inside this laboratory under the pressure of the system has taught me something I’m not sure I should even admit to myself: there is no moment that remains intact afterward. Not the neutral ones, not the empty ones, not even the ones that were supposed to be happy.
The body-matrix tries to register instants as separate compartments, clean, archivable. But something interferes. Something that does not disappear when the scene ends. Something that should not be there, but is.
The thought of the Master.
Not as a clear image. Not as a stable presence.
But as a kind of residue.
A background noise that arrives late, when the moment is already gone.
Sometimes I am in bed, scrolling through my phone, watching meaningless videos, even laughing a little… and suddenly there is that strange sensation: as if something is wrong in the way I am there.
Not in the content.
In the structure.
As if the moment were “misplaced” inside me.
And then comes the worst part: retrospection.
Even what was pleasant starts to feel contaminated afterward.
Not while it happens.
After.
When I can no longer defend it.
When it no longer makes sense.
The memory does not stay clean.
It bends.
It distorts.
It reorganizes itself around something that was not at the center at the time… but is now.
And I find myself trying to remember whether I was actually okay.
Whether it was happiness.
Or just a pause between interferences.
And the more I try to separate one from the other, the more they blend.
The more intrusive the thought becomes.
The harder it gets to recover the original version of the moment.
As if memory is no longer an archive, but a system that rewrites lived experience without asking me.
And the most uncomfortable part is not the presence of the thought.
It is the doubt that maybe it was always there.
I just couldn’t see it before.
I am not moving it the neck has locked I should…
