The problem was never stillness.
Nor the procedure.
Nor even the Master.
The problem was always the return.
There is something deeply irritating about discovering that an idea continues functioning long after you no longer wish to think about it.
Because I am not inside the laboratory when it happens.
I am somewhere else.
Doing something entirely unrelated.
And yet something returns.
Not an image.
Not a specific memory.
More like a direction.
A silent vector that always points toward the same place.
Toward the end of the process.
I do not like being submissive.
The sentence remains true.
I repeat it.
I examine it.
I believe it.
And yet it changes nothing.
Because the obsession does not appear to require my approval.
It arrives on its own.
With an autonomy that feels almost offensive.
The Marquis de Sade understood something disturbing about certain mental mechanisms.
They do not require reward to keep functioning.
They do not require relief.
They do not even require satisfaction.
They require only continuity.
And perhaps that is precisely what haunts me.
Not a fantasy.
Not an identity.
A continuity.
The sensation that an unfinished process continues operating somewhere.
Like a machine nobody ever switched off.
Like an equation that continues solving itself behind a wall.
Sometimes I imagine the laboratory empty.
No Master.
No commands.
No instruments.
And yet the sensation remains.
Because it no longer depends on them.
It depends on the question.
What would happen if I reached the end?
Not to obey.
Not to belong.
Not to become something.
Simply to see it.
To understand what is there.
To discover why part of my mind keeps pointing in that direction over and over again.
Perhaps there is no answer.
Perhaps the process matters more than its resolution.
Perhaps the real machinery is not inside the laboratory.
Perhaps it is here.
Inside this repetition.
Inside this insistence.
Inside this inability to abandon a question that refuses to stop reproducing itself.
Because time passes.
Days pass.
Arguments pass.
But the idea remains.
Not stronger.
Not weaker.
Simply constant.
Waiting.
As if it knows something that I do not yet know.
The neck has locked I should…
