The most embarrassing part is not remembering.
The most embarrassing part is realizing how many things end up remembering him without permission.
I try to tell myself it is not a big deal.
That it was a session.
A conversation.
A sequence of circumstances.
I try to reduce it to something logical.
I try to archive it.
I try to place it beside other memories and allow it to cool.
But something strange happens.
Something I cannot explain without feeling immediately uncomfortable.
Because it does not disappear.
It infiltrates.
It appears before waking up.
Not when I open my eyes.
Before.
In that strange place where consciousness has not fully arrived yet.
And it is already there.
Not an image.
Not a fantasy.
A presence.
As though some hidden part of my mind remained awake all night preserving something.
Sometimes I am making coffee.
Just coffee.
Nothing else.
And suddenly I remember the exact way the Master held a pause.
Not even an order.
Not even a sentence.
A pause.
And somehow that occupies more mental space than entire conversations.
I try to ignore it.
Then it returns.
Later.
While chopping vegetables.
While waiting for water to boil.
While searching for something completely unrelated online.
While watching a video that has absolutely nothing to do with any of this.
And yet it appears.
Not as an interruption.
As a continuation.
As if my mind had continued thinking about it outside my awareness.
There are particularly humiliating moments.
Small moments.
Ridiculous moments.
Like discovering that I still remember the circular mark left during the last session.
Not because it hurt.
Not because it mattered.
Precisely because it should not matter.
And yet I remember its shape.
I remember where it was.
I remember noticing it while changing clothes.
I remember looking at it for far too long.
Much longer than was reasonable.
And that is the unbearable part.
Because the more I try to understand it the less sense it makes.
And the less sense it makes the more space it occupies.
Sometimes I think about Sade.
Not the historical figure.
Not the legend.
I think about the uncomfortable intuition running through some of his writing.
The suspicion that certain ideas do not seek to persuade.
They seek to remain.
And permanence is precisely the problem.
Because time does not seem to solve it.
Time seems to worsen it.
There is no forgetting.
There is sedimentation.
Things become smaller.
But they also become more compact.
Quieter.
Harder to remove.
I try to reason.
I try to leave.
I try to remember every reason this should have ended long ago.
Then it appears again.
The idea of remaining adjusted by the Master’s hand.
Waiting.
Simply waiting.
For something to end.
For something to continue.
I am not even sure which.
And the more I think about it the less I understand it.
The less I understand it the more space it occupies.
The more space it occupies the more excitement appears.
And the more excitement appears the less I like admitting it.
Because there is something deeply humiliating about discovering that part of you continues arranging itself around something you never rationally approved.
Something you did not choose to preserve.
Something that should have disappeared.
But it does not disappear.
It remains.
And some mornings, before I am even fully awake, it is already there again.
Waiting before I am.
I am not moving it the neck has locked I should…
