To inhabit this laboratory is to accept that my volume no longer belongs to biology, but to planimetry.
I did not choose this clearly.
It arrived as a slow inclination, as if thought itself were being refined toward a single possible direction.
I feel the mechanism moving across my bodily matrix with the precision of an invisible drafting line, turning each vertebra into a point of reading for a will I cannot always distinguish from my own.
In Sade’s logic, understood here as an architecture of limits rather than a moral figure, flesh ceases to be experience and becomes inscription surface.
A support where meaning is written without permission.
There is no discrepancy between the design and what in me tries to resist it.
And yet that resistance does not vanish.
It folds inward.
It becomes quieter.
Harder to name.
Each command is felt as an internal reconfiguration: it does not destroy, it reorganizes.
It replaces spontaneous flow with a structure of coherence I did not choose, but recognize with an unsettling familiarity.
I am a reception as architecture.
A space where organs no longer function as organs, but as structural elements.
A conceptual mineralized infrastructure of obsidian that redefines what “being” means.
It is a strange relief to notice how my pulsating inertia stops in front of the precision of design.
Not because impulse disappears.
But because it loses priority.
What was once impulse becomes observation.
And what was once a desire for movement becomes an obsessive attention to how everything fits.
The ribcage ceases to be expansion and becomes a symbolic containment structure.
It is not the body that changes first.
It is the way I perceive it.
The saturation of this geometry does not destroy or liberate me.
It reorganizes me.
It turns me into function.
Into something that can be read within a system, even if that system exists only in thought.
The disappearance of will does not happen as an event.
It happens as accumulation.
As if each unresolved thought pushed the next one toward a more stable, more closed, more difficult-to-abandon form.
And here the central contradiction appears.
I do not like the idea of being submissive.
It still feels foreign.
Even now.
But there are moments —brief, insistent— when the mind returns on its own to that “end of the process”.
Not as conscious desire.
But as attraction toward resolution.
As if something in me believed that only at the end of that process does explanation exist.
And that belief, even when not accepted, keeps operating.
Truth does not reside in obedience.
Nor in denial.
But in the uncomfortable oscillation between both.
In the inability to close the idea without imagining it to its end.
The system does not impose itself from outside.
It repeats itself from within.
Like a form of thought that cannot stop before completing its own architecture.
The neck locks in an angle of absolute fatigue I am not moving it the neck has locked I should…
