I don’t like being submissive.
That sentence remains the starting point of every coherent thought I try to build about myself.
I don’t like it.
And yet another part of me does not respond to that statement.
A part that does not argue.
It only remembers.
It remembers the moment as an unfinished structure.
Not the event.
Not the scene.
But the exact instant when something inside me stopped trying to explain itself.
That is what returns.
Not obedience.
Not surrender.
But the transition.
The passage between thinking and no longer needing to think.
And there, the mind breaks into two incompatible directions.
One insists on clarity.
On separation.
On daily life, continuity, everything else.
That part tells me none of this should take up so much space.
That it is absurd.
That it should end.
But the other part does not answer with arguments.
It answers with return.
With repetition.
With a silent insistence I cannot interrupt.
And so everyday life starts to feel lighter in a strange way.
Not empty.
Not exactly sad.
Just less solid.
As if part of my attention had been left behind in a scene that no longer happens, but still functions as an internal reference point.
Sometimes I try to solve it rationally.
To name it.
To classify it.
To explain it as error, habit, fixation.
But the more I analyze it, the more it shifts.
Because what I am looking for is not an idea.
It is a sensation that does not translate.
The sensation of being inside a process I did not understand, but which seemed to reorganize me from within.
Not as transformation.
But as adjustment.
And what disturbs me is not that I lived it.
But that part of me now treats it as a place to mentally return to, in order to understand something that still has no form.
That is the obsession.
Not desire.
Not identity.
But the persistence of a question without language.
What was happening inside me when I stopped trying to explain it?
And why does that question never close?
Why does it not end?
Why does it keep returning even when everything else continues functioning normally?
Daily life does not collapse.
But its edges lose definition.
As if the mind were split between what happens and what keeps trying to reconstruct itself.
And every time I try to resolve it, the same contradiction appears:
I want to leave this
but I don’t want to stop thinking it.
I have to move my neck I am not moving it…
