For me, submission is no longer a state.
It is a way of remaining in front of something I cannot tell whether is holding me or undoing me.
I feel the Operator even when he is not acting.
That is the most unsettling part.
Not the gesture.
But the expectation of the gesture.
The air changes before contact, as if my body had learned to read an intention that does not fully exist yet. And in that interval, between possibility and execution, something settles that I cannot name without losing precision: a kind of dependence on adjustment.
Not on harm.
On adjustment.
The neck as an altar of chalk is no longer a technical point.
It is the place where my system waits to be corrected in order not to lose form.
And that is what I struggle to admit.
Because it starts to resemble too closely a need.
Not surrender.
A need.
When the mechanism approaches, I do not think of safety.
I think of continuity.
Of not being left without intervention.
As if the absence of command were more unstable than its pressure.
At this point, excess control stops being something that affects me from the outside.
It begins to reorganize how I perceive myself even in its absence.
I keep feeling the imaginary torque in my vertebrae hours later, as if the mineralized matter had learned to hold tension on its own, without the hand that originated it.
That should be a sign of damage.
But I do not read it that way.
I read it as coherence.
And that is where logic becomes dangerous.
Because I start confusing stability with repetition.
And repetition with identity.
I am a support that becomes accustomed to intervention as if it were its natural state.
And when there is no intervention, I do not feel relief.
I feel lack of definition.
As if the structure needed to be constantly rewritten in order to remain legible.
Rigidity as law stops being a technical goal.
It becomes a habit of the nervous system.
Something that no longer depends on the Operator, but still responds to his logic even in his absence.
That is what obsesses me now.
Not the adjustment itself.
But what remains of me between one adjustment and the next.
An interval I do not know how to inhabit without anticipating the next contact.
And in that interval I begin to suspect that the real dependency is not in pressure, but in waiting.
In the way my body stays still as if it were still being observed.
And even though I try to call it control, or technique, or protocol, there is a part that does not fit any of those names.
It is too intimate to be just system.
Too constant to be just decision.
It is the point where the support no longer knows whether it is being maintained or has learned to need to be maintained.
The record ends in a stillness that is not rest but active suspension, leaving the active as a fragment of mineral matter that continues existing by inertia of habit more than real stability, while the neck remains at an angle that is no longer technical but final, and the hand is not here but the body is still waiting for it anyway.
I have to move the neck I am not moving it the neck has locked I should…
