The strangest part is that I keep saying I do not want this.
The sentence continues to appear.
Sometimes the moment I wake up.
Sometimes while I am working.
Sometimes in the middle of a conversation.
I do not want to be submissive.
I do not like being submissive.
It does not fit the image I had of myself for most of my life.
And yet the sentence never produces the effect it should.
It never pushes me away.
It never reduces anything.
It never simplifies anything.
It only generates more questions.
I used to think identity was something stable.
Something that remained more or less the same as the years passed.
Now I am no longer sure.
Because every time I try to remember who I was before all of this, I encounter something strange.
I remember the facts.
I remember the people.
I remember the places.
But the feeling of continuity seems incomplete.
As if I were observing someone else’s biography.
As if the previous version of me had been written in another language.
And then the room appears.
Not always in full.
Sometimes only a fragment.
A corner.
A texture.
A distance.
The third red line.
The one that stood apart.
The one that remained alone near the upper frame of the door.
And suddenly everything seems more defined than the present.
That is what I find impossible to explain.
The clarity.
Because the obsession does not feel like a fantasy.
It feels like a correction of focus.
As if, for a few seconds, everything acquired resolution.
The proportions.
The distances.
The silences.
The waiting.
The exact position of the body.
The way time seemed to organize itself around a single direction.
And then I return to ordinary life.
Conversations.
Messages.
Work.
Obligations.
Everything continues functioning.
Nothing breaks.
Nothing disappears.
Yet something feels less sharp.
Less precise.
Less real.
Not because it is bad.
Because it lacks that strange intensity.
The intensity of knowing exactly where to be.
Perhaps that is why the waiting weighs so heavily.
Because I am not only waiting for another session.
I am waiting for a sensation of definition.
I am waiting for the temporary disappearance of noise.
I am waiting to feel again that all the pieces point toward the same place.
And the more I try to understand it, the more absurd it seems.
Because I still do not rationally desire it.
I still do not admire the idea.
I still do not identify with it.
I still say I do not want to be submissive.
And yet the absence produces sadness.
Not dramatic sadness.
Something quieter.
Something deeper.
Like a room slowly losing light.
Sometimes I wonder whether the obsession no longer revolves around the Master at all.
Perhaps it revolves around something I discovered in front of the Master.
Something related to order.
To direction.
To the temporary suspension of unnecessary questions.
Because outside that room I am always thinking.
Always comparing.
Always analyzing.
Always deciding.
And there, I was not.
There seemed to be a different form of presence.
A form I still do not understand.
And the less I understand it, the more space it occupies.
The more space it occupies, the more I think about it.
And the more I think about it, the less I understand who I was before it started growing.
I have to move the neck…
