The democratization of pleasure was supposed to create abundance.
That was the promise.
More access.
More freedom.
More possibilities.
More bodies.
More images.
More experiences.
And yet, sitting in this room, staring at the white dust gathered across the desk, I have the feeling that the opposite happened.
The crack above the ceiling looks longer than yesterday.
I am not sure.
I did not measure it.
But something about its shape feels different.
As if it advanced during the night.
As if the room continues working when I am not watching it.
I look at the screen.
Thousands of stimuli.
Thousands of options.
Thousands of small invitations to feel something.
Then a strange sensation appears.
Not excitement.
Not yet.
Something before excitement.
The expectation of excitement.
The promise that it exists somewhere.
The certainty that the next stimulus will be the correct one.
Then the next.
Then another.
Sade would have recognized the structure immediately.
Not because he had access to this technology.
But because he understood the mechanism.
The libertine does not pursue pleasure.
He pursues the moment before pleasure.
The tension.
The approach.
The feeling that the next door will finally be the right one.
But it never is.
And that is precisely why he keeps moving.
The room remains motionless.
The screen changes.
The room remains.
The screen changes.
The room remains.
The screen changes.
I begin to notice something uncomfortable.
I am not searching for an image.
I am searching for the disappearance of a sensation.
There is a vast difference.
One seeks presence.
The other seeks relief.
The crack in the ceiling seems to have moved again.
This time I am almost certain.
Not much.
A few millimeters perhaps.
Less, maybe.
I try to remember its exact shape.
I cannot.
Then I understand something.
Perhaps the democratization of pleasure is not about distributing pleasure.
Perhaps it is about distributing pursuit.
Distributing hunger.
Multiplying expectation.
Turning millions of people into organisms specialized in constantly approaching a satisfaction that never fully materializes.
Sade would have enjoyed the irony.
The promise of abundance producing scarcity.
The promise of freedom producing repetition.
The promise of pleasure producing surveillance.
I keep watching the room.
The screen remains on.
The note remains on the desk.
I do not remember leaving it there.
I do not remember when it appeared.
I do not remember reading it.
But I know what it says.
That is the strange part.
Because it is folded.
Because I cannot see the words.
And yet I know exactly what is written inside.
IT IS NOT DESIRE.
Nothing else.
Just that.
A sudden excitement moves through me.
Brief.
Cold.
Almost electrical.
Not caused by any image.
Nor by any body.
Nor by any fantasy.
Caused by the suspicion that something has just explained itself.
And that the explanation does not include me.
The room remains silent.
The crack continues advancing.
I have to move my neck.
I am not moving it.
I should.
The base of my skull is a surface of cold plaster.
The note remains closed.
I do not need to open it.
I am still reading it.
I have to move my neck I am not moving it…
