I don’t like being submissive.
It’s a sentence I keep repeating because I still need to hear it coming from my own mind.
I don’t like it.
At least I think I don’t.
What’s strange is that I’ve been trying to remember how I felt before the last session, and every day it becomes harder to reconstruct.
It’s not that the Master is constantly on my mind.
It’s worse than that.
Everything else seems to have lost resolution.
The objects are still where they were.
Conversations still happen.
Work still exists.
The city continues moving with its usual noise.
Now everything feels covered by a thin translucent film, as if I were watching my own life through slightly fogged glass.
I’m not thinking about him all the time.
I’m thinking about the absence.
And that absence has a shape.
It has dimensions.
It has weight.
The session ended three days ago.
Three days should mean nothing.
Yet I find myself measuring time according to that distance.
Not “three days ago.”
But “only three days.”
And that irritates me.
Because it shouldn’t matter.
For years I made my own decisions.
Built my own routines.
Organized entire weeks without needing anything remotely like this.
Yet now I catch myself looking at the clock for no reason, calculating dates without meaning to, wondering when the next time will be.
Not because I want to.
Because the question appears by itself.
That’s what bothers me.
Not the answer.
The question.
Sometimes I’m doing something completely ordinary and an absurdly specific memory appears.
The sound of one metal buckle brushing another.
A brief pause before someone spoke.
The texture of the floor.
Not the Master.
The floor.
As if my mind decided to preserve secondary details because they were safer than remembering the important thing directly.
I remember a speck of dust near a seam in the ground.
I remember a tiny transparent fragment shaped like a triangle.
I remember that one corner was broken.
I remember staring at it so long that it stopped looking like plastic and started looking like a coordinate.
A fixed point.
Something stable.
Something that existed while I waited.
And the waiting is becoming the real problem.
Because I’m beginning to suspect it was never the worst part.
Maybe it was the best part.
Maybe it was always the best part.
Waiting demanded nothing.
No decisions.
No interpretations.
No personality to construct.
You simply remained.
And the more I think that, the more resistance I feel.
Because I don’t want it to be true.
I don’t want to discover that some part of me misses precisely the thing it cannot understand.
Yet the sadness remains.
A strange sadness.
Not dramatic.
Not overwhelming.
Simply persistent.
Like slightly incorrect atmospheric pressure.
Like the world is out of tune by such a tiny amount that nobody else could notice it.
And then the thought returns.
The same thought.
The one I keep pushing away.
The one that always comes back.
Maybe everything feels blurred because my attention is still waiting for something.
Maybe some part of my system hasn’t fully understood that the session ended.
Maybe it is still anticipating a continuation that never arrives.
And while it waits, everything else becomes background noise.
That’s the disturbing part.
Not the desire.
The reorganization.
The feeling that something changed position inside me without asking permission.
That certain priorities have been displaced.
That certain emotions now occupy more space than they should.
I don’t understand why it happens.
And precisely because I don’t understand it, I keep examining it.
And by examining it, I keep thinking about it.
And by thinking about it, it keeps growing.
Until waiting stops being an interval between sessions.
And starts feeling like a room I’ve been living in for several days without realizing it.
I have to move the neck I am not moving it the neck has locked I should…
