For my system, the problem is no longer the session.
The problem is everything that happens afterward.
The session ends.
The door opens.
The street continues to exist.
People keep talking.
Cars keep moving.
The world repeatedly proves that nothing has changed.
And yet something refuses to come back with me.
I do not like being submissive.
The sentence keeps returning.
I repeat it.
I examine it.
I try to use it as a tool.
I do not like being submissive.
I do not want my mind occupied this way.
I do not want to spend hours reconstructing a room.
I do not want to remember absurd details.
And yet I continue doing it.
What unsettles me most is that the obsession no longer seems to feed on pleasure.
It feeds on lack of resolution.
The more I try to understand it, the more space it occupies.
The more space it occupies, the less remains for everything else.
I have tried to remember exactly what happened.
I have tried to locate the precise moment.
The final explanation.
The correct reason.
But I always return to the same place.
Not to the blows.
Not to the orders.
Not to the authority.
I return to the waiting.
To remaining motionless.
To that strange moment when everything seemed to be finished.
I had already been adjusted.
The correction was complete.
There was nothing left to do.
No decision remained.
Only remain.
And then the memory that persists the most returns.
The breathing.
Not the intensity.
Not the volume.
The rhythm.
The exact distance between one breath and the next.
The way it divided the silence.
The way it transformed waiting into something measurable.
Sometimes I try to remember other things.
But memory rejects them.
And returns there.
To the breathing.
To the room.
To the waiting.
To the three red lines.
Two close together.
One separated.
Too high.
Too insignificant.
Too clear.
As if the mind had decided to preserve those details because it could preserve nothing else.
And then a suspicion appears that becomes harder to ignore every day.
Perhaps I was never trying to understand the session.
Perhaps I have spent weeks trying to understand why I keep returning to it.
Because everything else seems to lose definition.
Conversations.
Days.
Obligations.
Plans.
While that room continues becoming sharper.
More stable.
More complete.
As if it were being constantly rebuilt inside me.
I do not like being submissive.
The sentence remains true.
And yet it does not stop anything.
Because the more often I repeat it, the more obvious another truth becomes.
The obsession no longer depends on being there.
The obsession depends on being unable to completely leave.
And that difference keeps occupying more and more space.
I have to move the neck I am not moving it the neck has locked I should…
