The savage doesn’t enter.
It doesn’t burst in.
It stays outside, watching, as if it had already been domesticated before it even appeared.
I write this and notice something uncomfortable:
I no longer know if I’m describing it or justifying why I keep looking at it.
Sade appears here as a structure.
Not as an author.
As a repeating logic.
And that’s the part I don’t say properly out loud.
The idea of the savage, in me, is not pure.
Not clear.
It mixes with something slower.
Closer to reading than to action.
I realize there is no real “outside” when I think like this.
Only levels of intensity.
And I am already inside one of them.
I don’t admit that easily.
Because it sounds like loss of control.
But it’s not exactly that.
It’s more subtle.
Quieter.
Like an attention that doesn’t switch off when the text ends.
Afterwards I remain in a strange state.
Not emotion.
Not calm.
A kind of mental suspension.
As if something is left unresolved, but without urgency.
And the most uncomfortable part is this:
I start noticing that the “savage” is not content.
It’s a way of fixing attention.
A way of staying.
Without moving too much.
Without fully leaving.
I’m not saying it dramatically.
In fact, that’s what disturbs me: how undramatic it actually is.
It simply remains.
And that is enough to change the tone of everything else.
After the text there is nothing special.
Just normal silence.
But the silence no longer feels empty.
It feels occupied.
As if something keeps reading without needing words.
And I don’t know if that is thought or habit.
I only know it happens.
And I leave it written here because saying it out loud would sound too strange.
I have to move my neck I am not moving it I should the base of the skull a porous alabaster surface the taste of lime filling the glottis the pulsing inertia of the claw stops the record reaching absolute zero I should..
