I do not like being submissive.
I repeat that with the certainty of someone stating a simple truth.
I do not like it.
There are mornings when I wake up completely convinced.
Mornings when I look at that part of my life as though it belonged to somebody else. As though it had been a misunderstanding. As though it were finally time to leave it behind.
For a few minutes I believe it.
Then something happens.
It is not always an important memory.
Sometimes it is something absurd.
The way the Owner pronounced a word.
The pause between two instructions.
The way his fingers adjusted something that seemed insignificant.
And my mind returns.
Not to the Owner.
Not exactly.
It returns to the process.
To that strange place where something inside me began rearranging itself.
That is what I do not understand.
Because I do not miss obedience.
I do not miss the idea of being submissive.
I miss something that happened inside me while I was being adjusted.
As if, for a few hours, a different version of myself had existed.
Not better.
Not happier.
Only more precise.
Closer to an answer I never managed to understand.
And the less I understand it, the more space it occupies.
The obsession does not arrive as desire.
It arrives as a question.
A question that returns again and again.
What was happening there?
Why do I keep thinking about it?
Why does my mind constantly return to that moment?
There are entire nights when I try to analyze it.
I try to dismantle it piece by piece.
Reduce it to psychology.
To habit.
To attachment.
To any reasonable explanation.
But while I think, another memory appears.
The sensation of remaining still.
Pain settling in slowly.
The certainty that there was still a long way to go before the process would be complete.
And something inside me becomes quiet.
That should worry me.
Yet all I do is continue watching it.
Perhaps pain has something to do with it.
Not pain as suffering.
Nor as pleasure.
But as language.
As though every ache, every pressure, every crossed limit were writing something I cannot read when I am far away from it.
As though my body understands a language my mind has not yet learned.
That is why I keep returning.
Not because I want to be submissive.
But because I suspect the answer exists at the end of a sentence I never finished hearing.
And every time I try to walk away, every time I decide this is over, the question opens again.
Life continues.
Work.
Conversations.
Responsibilities.
Routines.
Everything still functions.
But sometimes those things seem to lose definition.
They do not disappear.
They simply become less sharp.
As though part of my attention remains seated somewhere else.
Waiting.
Waiting for the moment the Owner begins his process again.
Waiting for the moment my body is corrected once more.
Waiting to discover whether there is something at the end of that path capable of justifying this obsession.
And perhaps the most unsettling thing is that I still cannot find an answer.
Because the more time passes, the less certain I am that I want to be submissive.
And at the same time, the harder it becomes to stop imagining myself there.
Motionless.
Adjusted.
Waiting.
As though some part of me remains convinced that the explanation exists only on the other side of the final adjustment.
The neck locks in a definitive angle I am not moving it it has locked I should…
