I do not know when it stopped being about the session.
Perhaps it was never about the session at all.
Because the session ended.
What never ended was the need to understand it.
And the more I try to understand it, the more excitement appears.
It should not work that way.
If something is understood, it should lose strength.
It should shrink.
It should occupy less space.
Yet the opposite happens.
I return to the memory in order to analyze it.
And the analysis produces excitement.
The excitement produces more questions.
The questions produce more memory.
And the memory produces more excitement.
It is a perfect mechanism precisely because it appears defective.
I have spent hours trying to prove something very simple to myself.
I do not like being submissive.
The sentence remains true.
It has not changed.
I can repeat it a hundred times.
A thousand times.
And it remains true.
I do not like it.
I do not want that position.
I do not want to need that room.
I do not want to think about it constantly.
And yet the certainty of those statements changes nothing.
Nothing.
The obsession continues growing behind them.
As if it were using my objections as fuel.
Sometimes I try to locate the origin.
I search for the exact instant.
The point where everything began.
And I always end up returning to absurd details.
The breathing.
The waiting.
The third red line.
That line separated from the others.
Too high.
Too defined.
So defined that it feels offensive.
Because there are entire weeks of my life that I remember less clearly than that line.
And that makes no sense.
None of this makes sense.
Neither does the excitement.
Because it no longer resembles ordinary desire.
It does not resemble the pursuit of pleasure.
It does not resemble fantasy.
It resembles tension.
Accumulation.
As if my mind were attempting to solve an impossible equation.
And every failure increased the charge.
The incomprehension becomes excitement.
The excitement demands explanation.
The explanation fails.
And the failure produces more obsession.
It is a circle that seems to feed upon its own impossibility.
The worst part is that I am beginning to suspect I am not remembering in order to understand.
I am understanding in order to continue remembering.
And that difference changes everything.
Because it means memory is no longer serving explanation.
Explanation is serving memory.
Every analysis becomes an excuse to return.
Every question becomes a doorway.
Every doubt becomes a reconstruction.
And every reconstruction places me back there.
In the room.
In the waiting.
In the moment before the end.
Where there was nothing left to do.
Nothing left to decide.
Nothing left to interpret.
Only to remain.
And perhaps that is precisely what I cannot abandon.
Not the power.
Not the obedience.
Not the stillness.
But the existence of a place where the need to understand disappeared completely.
Because now I live in the exact opposite condition.
Now I try to understand.
And the more I understand, the less I comprehend.
The less I comprehend, the more obsessed I become.
The more obsessed I become, the more excited I feel.
And the more excited I feel, the more I need to return.
Not to repeat it.
Not to enjoy it.
Not to solve it.
But to approach once more something that continues growing precisely because it refuses to be explained.
I have to move the neck I am not moving it…
