ENGLISH
Every time I try to understand it, the opposite happens.
I do not move closer to an answer.
I move further away.
And the further away I move, the more he appears.
Not as a person.
Not exactly.
But as a process.
As a sequence of adjustments my mind repeats over and over without permission.
There are days when I am convinced it is over.
Ordinary days.
Reasonable days.
I wake up.
I work.
I talk to people.
I make plans for the following week.
And for a few hours it feels as though I have recovered a recognizable version of myself.
Then something shifts.
Something small.
A silence that lasts too long.
A pause.
The feeling of my back resting against a chair.
And I return.
Not to the Master.
Not directly.
I return to the question.
Why?
Why am I still thinking about this?
Why does it keep appearing?
Why does an idea that never felt entirely mine occupy so much space inside my head?
And the less I understand it, the more I find myself imagining it.
Not because I want to be submissive.
That still feels strange.
It still feels foreign.
But because some part of me continues asking what would happen if I kept moving forward.
Just a little further.
Only a little.
As though there were an answer hidden at the end of the process.
As though there were a position from which everything would finally make sense.
And my mind begins constructing it.
Week after week.
Day after day.
Automatically.
It does not imagine the meeting.
It does not imagine the ritual.
It does not imagine anything dramatic.
It imagines remaining.
That is the strange part.
Simply remaining.
While the process continues.
While the adjustments continue.
While the small corrections continue.
Until something finally settles into place.
Until something stops producing friction.
Until that version of myself that always seems to be moving finally finds a point of rest.
Sometimes I think what truly obsesses me is not obedience.
It is the possibility of understanding.
The possibility of discovering what exists beyond all those internal limits I still cannot explain.
Because the first time I felt something being adjusted by him, something happened that I still cannot describe.
I did not feel defeated.
I did not feel diminished.
I did not feel less.
I felt something else.
And ever since then my mind keeps returning there.
Like an investigator revisiting the same place again and again because he is convinced he overlooked a crucial piece of evidence.
Perhaps that is why every memory becomes a question.
And every question becomes an obsession.
The anatomy of rigor speaks of structures.
Axes.
Alignments.
Supports.
But inside me it happens in a much simpler way.
There is a part of me that is still trying to understand why that sensation of adjustment felt so real.
And another part that suspects it will only understand if it remains there long enough.
Until the end.
Until the point where resistance finally stops.
Until the point where the explanation appears.
Or where it is no longer needed.
And perhaps that is what frightens me most.
The possibility that I am not searching for an answer at all.
The possibility that I am searching for the version of myself that exists only while it is being adjusted.
The neck I am not moving it the neck has locked I should…
