Obsession does not feel like a command.
It feels like a return.
At first I believed I was trying to understand.
That was the story I kept telling myself.
Return to the session.
Review the details.
Find the cause.
Find the meaning.
Find the mistake that explains why I keep coming back.
But the more I returned, the fewer explanations I found and the more I found a presence.
It was not an answer.
It was a sensation.
The sensation of remaining there.
Already adjusted.
Already placed.
With no task left to complete.
No decision left to make.
Only waiting.
I do not remember every detail of that night.
I do not remember every word.
I do not remember every movement.
But I remember the waiting.
I remember it with unbearable precision.
I remember time narrowing itself around a few things.
The room.
The silence.
The Master’s breathing.
And me.
Nothing else.
I try to analyze it.
The obsession grows.
The obsession increases the excitement.
The excitement destroys the distance required to analyze anything.
Then more incomprehension appears.
And the incomprehension forces me to return again.
It is a perfect circuit.
The less I understand, the more I think.
The more I think, the more present it becomes.
The more present it becomes, the harder it is to look at anything else.
The room begins occupying space.
Then the waiting occupies space.
Then the memory of the waiting occupies space.
And finally the fact that I am still thinking about it occupies space.
Everything reorganizes itself around a center I cannot explain.
It is not pain.
It is not pleasure.
It is not even submission.
It is something stranger.
It is the impossibility of resolving it.
Because I keep telling myself I do not want this.
And I keep returning.
I keep telling myself it should have lost its importance.
And it keeps growing.
I keep telling myself it should have remained behind.
And it appears again.
Sharper.
Closer.
Heavier.
There are moments when it feels as if the excitement no longer comes from the session.
It comes from the obsession itself.
As if every return adds another layer.
As if every attempt to escape feeds exactly the thing I am trying to escape.
And then I remember something small.
The way I waited.
The certainty that I had nothing to do.
The feeling that the process was moving forward without needing my participation.
And suddenly everything returns.
The room.
The tension.
The waiting.
The breathing.
The impossibility of understanding.
And that unbearable certainty that the harder I try to solve it, the deeper I enter it.
The neck I am not moving it the neck has locked I should…
