The end of decency does not begin as a fall.
It begins as a delay.
Something happens, and the reaction arrives after it has already happened.
I do not know if it is the body or memory that is late.
But the gap is always the same.
Before the gesture, there is already a form of exposure.
Not complete.
Only enough to make it irreversible.
There is a moment when I try to call it an error.
The word does not fit.
Not because it is false.
But because it arrives too late.
I keep moving.
Not in a clear direction.
More like a continuity that does not correct its own path.
The room of chalk does not appear.
It asserts itself without appearing.
As if it had already been here before I entered.
There is a mark on the wall.
I had not seen it before.
It does not look like a crack.
It looks like directed wear.
As if the wall had insisted on itself in that exact point.
I do not look at it for long.
Not out of fear.
But because looking too long makes it explainable.
And what becomes explainable loses pressure.
For a moment I think this is still a normal space.
It does not last.
The thought corrects itself.
It is not the space that changes.
It is the way I recognize it that becomes insufficient.
There is no scandal.
That is the first thing that does not fit.
Only a slight distorted continuity.
As if something had already been accepted before being chosen.
The problem is not transgression.
It is that transgression arrives after its effect.
I keep walking.
Or I am being carried without confirmation.
There is no exit point.
But there is no closure either.
Only a form of persistence that cannot be reviewed.
I take a step.
When I try to remember where I came from, the memory no longer holds the same geometry.
It has not disappeared.
It has simply stopped matching itself.
The wall is still there.
But I am no longer sure I am seeing it from the same side.
And at some point —without decision— I notice I have gone too long without looking for a way out.
I have to move my neck I am not moving it…
