My neck has locked.
My neck should move.
But it does not move.
And the strange thing is that I no longer know whether what I am observing is a physical limitation or a memory.
Because my mind returns there again.
Not to the laboratory.
Not to the law.
Not to the architecture.
It returns to the process.
Always the process.
Never the identity.
I never liked the idea of being submissive.
Even now I do not like it.
The word still feels foreign.
Like clothing that belongs to someone else.
Like a biography written for a person who is not me.
And yet there is something worse.
Something I cannot explain.
The arousal appears anyway.
It does not appear because I believe in it.
It does not appear because I rationally desire it.
It does not appear because I have reached any conclusion.
It appears on its own.
As if it has no interest whatsoever in my opinion.
For years I believed arousal was a consequence of conviction.
Now I suspect conviction arrives much later.
Like tired bureaucrats attempting to write reports about a disaster that has already happened.
That is what occurs whenever I remember the Master.
I do not remember a specific command.
I do not remember a specific posture.
I do not remember a specific sensation.
I remember a process.
I remember the impression that something was being adjusted.
I remember the unsettling certainty that it was not finished yet.
And above all I remember the waiting.
The waiting for the end.
There are absurd moments during the day when the memory returns.
A queue.
An elevator.
An ordinary conversation.
And suddenly that feeling appears.
The feeling that I am still being adjusted.
As if a part of me remained suspended there.
Waiting.
Not for the beginning.
Not for the most intense moment.
Not for pleasure.
For the ending.
Always the ending.
Perhaps that is why the Marquis de Sade continues appearing in my thoughts.
Not because of his excesses.
Nor because of his cruelty.
But because of his obsession with systems.
With mechanisms.
With architectures where a person enters as one thing and leaves as another.
Sade seemed to understand something I find unbearable to admit.
That sometimes an experience does not attract us because we understand it.
Sometimes it attracts us precisely because we do not.
Because there is a suspicion that the explanation exists on the other side.
And that we have not reached it yet.
That is what haunts me.
Not the desire to be submissive.
But the suspicion that if I remained there long enough…
If I endured the entire process…
If I reached exactly the place the Master was trying to build…
Then I would understand something.
Something that remains hidden now.
And the less I understand it, the more it returns.
The less sense it makes, the more persistent it becomes.
Like a mathematical problem that keeps reappearing in the margins of every notebook.
Like a locked door that refuses to disappear simply because one chooses to ignore it.
My mind continues returning.
And each return feels less like a fantasy.
And more like an investigation that never manages to end.
The neck has locked I should…
