It should not be increasing.
That is what I do not understand.
An obsession should eventually exhaust itself.
It should wear down.
It should collapse under its own weight.
And yet the exact opposite keeps happening.
The more time I spend thinking about it, the more space it occupies.
The more I try to resolve it, the more alive it becomes.
Last night I repeated the same conclusion again.
I do not like being submissive.
The sentence still feels correct.
No part of me wants to argue against it.
I do not like it.
I do not like dependence.
I do not like waiting.
I do not like waking up thinking about a room that no longer exists for me.
I do not like a memory occupying more space than my own life.
And yet the memory keeps growing.
Like a structure feeding itself with the very tools used to dismantle it.
Every argument becomes fuel.
Every explanation.
Every hour spent trying to understand.
Everything returns to the same point.
The room.
The waiting.
The stillness.
And then something even stranger appears.
The breathing.
Not mine.
His.
I do not remember every detail of the session.
I do not remember every sensation.
I do not remember the exact intensity.
But I remember the breathing.
And I remember the intervals.
I remember remaining motionless after having been adjusted.
I remember that there was nothing left to do.
Nothing left to decide.
Nothing left to interpret.
Only remain.
Only wait.
And in that state the breathing seemed to become a kind of clock.
A measurement of time.
A structure.
Something organizing the space itself.
Sometimes I think that is what I am still searching for.
Not the session.
Not obedience.
Not even submission.
But that unbearable clarity.
That reduction of the world into something simple.
Because now everything has become complicated again.
Too many decisions.
Too many options.
Too many directions.
Whereas there everything seemed reduced to a single task.
Remain.
And the more I remember it, the harder it becomes to ignore.
The arousal no longer appears as an emotion.
It appears as a concentration.
A force compressing attention.
As if reality itself were beginning to lose resolution.
While certain things remain untouched.
The door.
The shadows.
The breathing.
And the lines.
Always the lines.
The two close together.
The right one more visible.
The left one more perfect.
And the third.
The one standing alone.
Separated.
Higher.
Near the upper frame.
So absurd.
So insignificant.
So impossible to forget.
Sometimes I wonder whether obsession is built from things exactly like that.
Not from grand events.
But from small details that survive after everything else disappears.
And the more I try to leave it behind, the more present they become.
As if the memory were learning how to defend itself.
As if it had stopped being a memory.
As if it had become an interior room that continues to exist long after the real door has closed.
The neck I am not moving it the neck has locked I should…
