Days have passed.
I do not know how many thoughts.
I do not know how many times I have tried to solve it.
I only know that I keep arriving at exactly the same place.
I do not like being submissive.
The sentence keeps appearing.
Sometimes it arrives the moment I open my eyes.
Sometimes while I am walking.
Sometimes in the middle of a conversation.
As if one part of me is still trying to stop something another part has already decided to continue.
I do not like being submissive.
And yet I keep thinking about it.
I keep returning.
I keep revisiting the same memories over and over again.
Like someone examining a photograph searching for a detail they already know perfectly well.
And then the wall appears.
Always that wall.
I do not remember everything that happened during that session.
I remember fragments.
Sensations.
Silences.
Isolated moments.
But there is something that returns with unbearable clarity.
The red lines.
Two of them were together.
That seemed logical.
They could have belonged to anything.
A mark.
A scrape.
Some object moved years ago.
But the third one did not.
The third one stood apart.
A short distance away.
Alone.
Vertical.
And far too high.
Almost beside the upper frame of the door.
That is what still follows me.
Not the mark.
The question.
How had it gotten there?
Why was it so high?
Why am I still thinking about it?
During the session I looked at it several times.
Without moving.
Without speaking.
Without looking away for long stretches of time.
And now, days later, it still appears.
Sometimes more clearly than the faces of people I spoke with yesterday.
That is what is beginning to concern me.
Because my friend talks.
I answer.
We laugh.
We remember stories.
Everything works.
Everything appears normal.
And yet something remains out of focus.
As if the world had lost resolution.
As if everything were still recognizable but somehow less dense.
Then my gaze becomes still.
A wall.
Smooth.
Perfectly painted.
No marks.
No lines.
Nothing to examine.
And precisely because of that I begin thinking about the other wall again.
The two lines together.
The third one apart.
The exact distance between them.
The impossible height.
And the room returns in full.
Not as a fantasy.
As a coordinate.
As a place where everything seemed to possess a definition I can no longer find.
Then the sadness appears.
Not dramatic sadness.
Not visible sadness.
Something quieter.
Something harder to explain.
The feeling that I do not know when I will return there.
The feeling that there is no date.
No answer.
No certainty.
Only waiting.
And the worst part is that the waiting keeps growing.
Because the more I try to move away from it, the more space it occupies.
The more I try to understand it, the less I understand.
And the less I understand, the more important it becomes.
Sometimes I think obsession works in the exact opposite way from everything else.
Normal things diminish when they are absent.
This does not.
This grows.
Expands.
Reorganizes itself.
Finds new ways to appear.
And one part of me keeps asking the same question.
Who was I before all of this started occupying so much space?
I cannot find a clear answer.
I only find that room.
That door.
That third red line.
And the unbearable feeling that I am still waiting for something whose return I cannot predict.
The neck I am not moving it…
