What begins to disappear is not language.
It is the need to use it.
That is what unsettles me.
Because I can still speak.
I can still answer questions.
I can still hold entire conversations.
And yet something feels different.
A kind of distance.
As if words must travel farther before reaching me.
They used to appear on their own.
Now I have to go looking for them.
While speaking with someone, part of my attention watches the entire mechanism.
The question.
The answer.
The explanation.
The politeness.
Everything appears to function correctly.
Yet beneath that functioning there is a new sensation.
The sensation that none of it is truly necessary.
Sometimes I remember those hours after a session.
The city continued moving.
People continued talking.
Screens continued glowing.
And I felt that something had remained behind.
Not in that room.
But within that stillness.
Because there nothing needed to be explained.
Nothing needed to be justified.
There was no need to rebuild an identity every few seconds.
Only remain.
And the more time passes, the harder it becomes to ignore the difference.
There are days when I catch myself staring at a wall for several minutes.
I am not thinking about anything specific.
I am simply observing.
The texture.
The light.
The tiny imperfections.
And then the memory appears.
The door.
The stillness.
The third red line.
The isolated one.
The one near the upper edge of the door frame.
I still do not know why I remember that line more clearly than many conversations.
I still do not know why it remains so sharply defined.
Perhaps because it never tried to mean anything.
It simply existed.
Like the door.
Like the silence.
Like the waiting.
While everything else seemed to demand interpretation.
The obsession has begun to change.
At first it felt like a need to return.
Now it feels like a need to understand.
But the more I try to understand it, the farther away it becomes.
Because every explanation feels too small.
Too simple.
Too human.
There is something about that clarity that does not fit inside language.
Something that exists just before words.
And remains just after them.
That is why I keep thinking about it.
Not because I understand it.
But because I do not.
Because I still wake up some mornings with the same sentence.
I do not want to be submissive.
And because even while thinking it, another part of me is already remembering the room.
Remembering the waiting.
Remembering the stillness.
As if memory had found a place where noise ends and still refuses to leave it.
I have to move the neck…
