I do not like pain.
That would be the simplest way to begin.
Because it is true.
I have never sought it in ordinary life.
I have never admired people who seemed to need it.
I have never wanted to suffer.
And yet I have spent weeks thinking about it.
Not pain as a sensation.
Not the instant itself.
Not the impact.
I think about what happens afterward.
I think about the strange way it remains.
How certain experiences disappear within hours while others continue writing themselves inside me for months.
That is what I do not understand.
There are days when I wake up determined to abandon this entire idea.
It seems absurd.
Unnecessary.
Even humiliating.
Then I remember something.
Not a complete scene.
Only a detail.
The way pain seemed to reorganize the world for a few seconds.
The way everything else stopped speaking.
The worries.
The obligations.
The repetitive thoughts.
Everything fell silent.
And only one question remained.
Why does this matter so much?
I cannot find the answer.
That is why I return.
Again and again.
Like a reader unable to abandon a book whose final page has been torn away.
My mind returns to the Master’s process not because I understand it.
It returns precisely because I do not.
It returns because somewhere within that journey something happened that I still cannot name.
Something that seemed to correct an old contradiction.
Something that seemed to arrange a noise that had been growing inside me for far too long.
I do not remember relief.
I remember clarity.
I do not remember submission.
I remember suspension.
The sensation of arriving somewhere I no longer needed to argue with myself.
And afterward came the sadness.
Because the moment ended.
Because life filled itself again with small tasks.
Because conversations returned.
Because the world recovered its usual volume.
And because part of me kept looking back.
As if I had left something there.
As if pain had written a note in the margins of my identity and I now spend entire days trying to decipher it.
Perhaps that is why the obsession continues.
Not because I want to suffer.
Not because I want to surrender.
But because I suspect there is a meaning hidden within that writing.
And I still have not learned how to read it.
My skin remembers something.
My mind keeps trying to translate it.
And between the two of them a question continues to grow, refusing to disappear.
I am not moving it it has locked I should…
