What I miss most is not the process.
It is not even the moment when the Master’s hand corrects a posture.
It is not the adjustment.
It is not the anticipation.
Nor is it the pain.
What I miss is what happens afterward.
That strange moment when there is nothing left to do.
Everything is finished.
Everything has been corrected.
Everything has been placed exactly where it belongs.
And then all that remains is to stay.
Sometimes I think my obsession began there.
Not during the process.
Not during the instructions.
But afterward.
When I was already adjusted.
When the Master had already finished.
When my only task was to exist exactly in the form he had decided.
I did not have to think.
I did not have to interpret.
I did not have to improve anything.
I did not have to prove anything.
I only had to remain.
And the more time passes, the more impossible it becomes to explain why that affects me so deeply.
Because it makes no sense.
It should not make sense.
Yet I continue remembering it.
I remember the sensation that time became something different.
Slower.
Heavier.
Sharper.
I remember the Master’s breathing.
Not the words.
Not the commands.
The breathing.
Because once everything was finished, the breathing seemed to become the only true measurement of time.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.
And I remained there.
Without moving.
Listening to it.
As though the entire laboratory breathed at the same rhythm.
As though the walls were breathing.
As though the lime dust was breathing.
As though that third red line was breathing.
The isolated line.
The one standing apart.
The one I still remember with absurd clarity.
Sometimes I think about it while I am working.
It appears suddenly.
Sharp.
Perfect.
More defined than many things directly in front of me.
And then the sadness arrives.
The same sadness.
Not dramatic sadness.
Not sharp sadness.
Something slower.
Heavier.
Like fog.
Because I know I am not there now.
I know I am somewhere else.
I know I am living my life.
Talking.
Walking.
Making decisions.
Making plans.
And yet part of me continues waiting.
Still adjusted.
Still motionless.
Still listening to that breathing.
Still looking at a closed door.
Still inhabiting a moment that ended a long time ago.
And the harder I try to move away from it, the more obvious something becomes that I do not want to admit.
Perhaps I do not miss the laboratory.
Perhaps I do not miss the process.
Perhaps I do not even miss the Master.
Perhaps I miss the disappearance of everything else.
Because during those moments the entire world seemed to reduce itself to a single truth.
Remain.
And nothing outside that room has felt that simple ever since.
I have to move the neck I am not moving it the neck has locked I should…
