What unsettles me most is not remembering the Master.
It is not even remembering the session.
It is remembering the room.
Because a person can leave.
A session can end.
An event can become part of the past.
But the room remains.
And something inside me keeps returning there.
Not physically.
Mentally.
As if part of my attention never actually left that place.
I try to think about something else.
I fail.
I try to remember other moments.
I fail.
I try to arrange the events in chronological order.
I fail again.
Because memory seems to reject the story and cling only to the atmosphere.
To the distance between objects.
To the texture of the walls.
To the exact position from which I waited.
To the unbearable sensation that something was slowly approaching.
And that my only task was to remain there while it approached.
The contradiction becomes harder and harder to ignore.
I do not want it to occupy so much space.
Yet it occupies space.
I do not want to think about it constantly.
Yet I think about it constantly.
I do not want it to become the center of my attention.
Yet it becomes the center of my attention.
And the more I try to force it away, the more solid it seems to become.
As though resistance itself were the very thing feeding it.
The obsession no longer feels like a thought.
It feels like a room.
An inner room.
A place I return to again and again while searching for an answer.
And each time I find only more questions.
Why do I remember certain details and not others?
Why do some images remain intact while everything else becomes blurred?
Why does the waiting feel more important than the thing I was waiting for?
Why does the tension continue growing when there is no longer any real situation to justify it?
The questions open.
They never close.
And the excitement appears precisely there.
Not in the answers.
In the opening.
In the impossibility of conclusion.
In the feeling that something has still not been understood.
Something that continues calling from the other side of a door that never quite closes.
Sometimes I think that is what truly remains.
Not the memory.
Not the desire.
Not the experience.
The door.
The sensation of a door remaining open a few inches.
And all of my attention focused on the dark space beyond it.
I have to move the neck I am not moving it the neck has locked I should…
