Five days have passed.
Five days should be enough.
That is what I keep telling myself.
Five days should have turned the session into a memory.
A finished event.
Something archived.
Something that no longer occupies space.
But it still hurts.
Not constantly.
Not the way it did during the session.
In some ways it is worse.
Because it appears unexpectedly.
When I get up.
When I turn in a chair.
When I lean back.
When I stretch without thinking.
And every time it appears, for a fraction of a second, the distance disappears.
Five days cease to exist.
The room returns.
The position returns.
The waiting returns.
And that is exactly what I cannot understand.
Because I do not like it.
I keep arriving at the same conclusion.
I do not like being submissive.
The sentence remains true.
I have no difficulty admitting it.
I do not like it.
I never did.
I never looked at these things and imagined they belonged to my life.
They always seemed to belong to someone else.
Another category of person.
Another reality.
Another world.
And yet here I am.
Five days later.
Thinking about it again.
Not because I want to.
Because it happens.
That is the disturbing part.
The obsession no longer feels like a choice.
It feels like a process.
Something that continues operating without my participation.
Something that keeps working while I am busy with other things.
Like a machine someone forgot to switch off.
The less I like it.
The more I need to understand it.
The more I need to understand it.
The more I think about it.
The more I think about it.
The larger it becomes.
And the larger it becomes.
The less I understand it.
It is a closed circuit.
A perfect architecture for producing obsession.
Over these five days I have tried to explain it to myself many times.
I have tested different answers.
Curiosity.
Dependence.
Habit.
Attraction.
None of them work.
They all feel too small.
Because none of them explain something very specific.
The waiting.
Not the session.
The waiting.
The strangest part is not remembering what happened.
It is waiting for what has not happened yet.
Because the mind continues behaving as if there is a continuation pending.
As if something remains unresolved.
As if the story stopped halfway through a sentence.
And ever since then a part of me remains listening.
Waiting for the next word.
Sometimes I wonder whether obsession feeds precisely on that absence.
Not the Master.
The distance.
Not the presence.
The interval.
Because when I was there everything was simple.
Painfully simple.
There was a room.
There were instructions.
There was a direction.
Now there is only empty space.
And empty space is far more difficult to endure.
That is why I keep reconstructing details.
Not the major events.
The details.
The third red line.
The mark on the ceiling.
The dust.
The long brown hair.
The distance between objects.
The texture of a wall.
The way light fell across a corner.
I do not know why those things survive.
But they do.
And every time I return to them I find something new.
As if the memory continues growing.
As if the session continues developing inside me after it ended outside.
Perhaps that is the hardest thing to admit.
That five days later I am no longer remembering the session.
I am living inside the consequences of remembering it too many times.
And each repetition adds another layer.
And each layer generates new questions.
And each question increases the obsession.
Until eventually there comes a strange moment.
A moment when I am no longer waiting for the next session.
I am waiting to become the version of myself that exists when the next session feels possible.
And that difference changes everything.
The neck has locked I should…
