The hallucination of control… I write it as if it were a report, but it isn’t.
It is not a system. Not a theory.
It is what happens when I try not to feel.
I notice it too late.
The sensation is not fear.
It is obedience without an object.
I notice small things and I feel ashamed admitting them.
How I stay still for too long.
How I wait for instructions that never arrive.
How the body invents rules when none are given.
The room is not a room.
It is a white insisting surface.
Lime. Always lime.
As if everything alive had to pass through that mineral filter to become bearable.
I shouldn’t write it like this.
It sounds too precise.
Too clean for what it actually is.
Because inside, there is no precision.
There is noise.
A kind of surveillance without a watcher.
A control that controls nothing, but never shuts down either.
This is what I’m ashamed of:
that part of me feels safer when everything becomes rigid.
When thought stops moving too much.
When the body “accepts” without argument, even if that acceptance is not peace.
Sometimes I feel language hardening before I do.
Sentences solidifying as I think them.
As if each word had a drying phase.
And inside that drying something I don’t want to name properly appears:
a false calm, too stable, almost artificial.
As if the system were working correctly… right when I am not.
It is not madness.
That would be too simple.
It is more uncomfortable.
It is excessive coordination.
Continuous adjustment.
The attempt to turn every sensation into structure.
And I realize something worse without drama:
even this confession wants order.
It wants symmetry.
It wants to close itself like a circuit.
But there are residues.
Small failures.
Interferences.
The feeling that something in me is watching even when I don’t want to look.
And I don’t know if that is me…
or just an old habit of being tense.
The body does not respond as it should.
Not fully.
Not clearly.
But it does not break either.
It just stays there.
as if learning how to become surface.
And that is what is hardest to admit:
that I sometimes confuse stability with immobility.
And I remain there, without saying it,
as if silence were still a form of control I can afford.
The hallucination of control does not appear as error.
It appears as excessive coherence.
Not as mental rupture, but as reorganization into an order that no longer requires validation.
There is no delusion.
Only an overly stable continuity of processes that do not stop where they should.
The lime room does not change.
But perception does.
Not abruptly.
Accumulating.
The walls do not move.
But they stop being fully fixed.
Something in them seems to wait for a confirmation that never arrives.
The system does not announce itself.
It only appears in the way attention stops jumping and starts remaining.
The mind does not collapse.
It becomes too consistent.
There is no single thought.
Only thought that never fully exits its own formation.
At the edge of vision, wall cracks carry no clear meaning.
They only persist.
The air has a density that does not vary, but is interpreted as variation.
The idea of control does not appear as content.
It appears as a mode of reading.
Synapse activity is not described.
It is inferred through repetition.
There is no visible neurochemical system.
Only the suspicion that something is being translated into another language without consciousness approval.
The body does not respond.
Nor resists.
It remains in an interval where both would be possible, but neither completes itself.
Thought tries to explain what is happening.
But explanation arrives too late.
The base of the skull does not hold an idea.
It marks the point where expansion of meaning stops being clear.
The air tastes of wet lime.
Without metaphor added.
There is no autopsy.
Only incomplete reading of an ongoing process.
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 neuron stops the record reaching absolute zero I should
