Last night I woke up again.
Not because of a sound.
Not because of a nightmare.
Not even because of a specific thought.
It was a breath.
My own.
Nothing more.
I opened my eyes in the darkness and for a few seconds I did not understand what was happening.
Then the memory arrived.
The Master’s hand around my neck.
Not squeezing.
Not forcing.
Simply there.
As if it had been placed exactly where it belonged.
And suddenly I realized something that felt unbearable.
Every time I breathe, I return to that room.
I do not do it intentionally.
I wish I did.
That would be easier.
But it happens on its own.
The air enters.
The air leaves.
And something inside my mind remembers.
The exact position.
The temperature of the skin.
The stillness.
The waiting.
The session slowly approaching its end.
I had already been adjusted.
There was nothing left to correct.
Nothing left to prove.
Nothing left to endure.
Only to remain.
And that is precisely what I do not understand.
Because I do not like being submissive.
The sentence still feels true.
Every time I repeat it, I find reasons to believe it.
It occupies too much space.
It consumes too many hours.
It takes too much energy.
And yet the contradiction continues to grow.
Because the less I like it, the harder it becomes to push away.
The less I understand it, the more it returns.
The more it returns, the less room it leaves for everything else.
I am beginning to notice changes I never expected.
Arousal no longer seems connected to the things I once understood.
It no longer seems connected to people.
Or fantasies.
Or even desire.
Everything eventually reduces itself to that room.
To the waiting.
To the breathing.
To the sensation of remaining motionless while time moved around me.
And that fills me with sadness.
A strange sadness.
Not empty.
Full.
Too full.
Like a room that no longer has space for anything else.
Because it does not feel like losing something.
It feels like discovering that something has occupied too much space inside me.
Sometimes I try to convince myself that I am the problem.
Maybe there is something defective in the way I think.
Maybe other people would simply move on.
Maybe they would remember a session and continue with their lives.
But I keep returning.
Not to the blows.
Not to the pain.
Not even to the orders.
I return to the final seconds.
To the breathing.
To the hand around my neck.
To the waiting.
And every return seems to sharpen the memory.
As if my mind were polishing it.
As if it were removing secondary details in order to preserve only that.
The breathing.
The hand.
The stillness.
The waiting.
And the unbearable certainty that something ended that night.
While something else is still continuing to grow.
I have to move the neck I am not moving it the neck has locked I should…
