Existing inside this laboratory means accepting a contradiction I have never managed to solve.
I do not like being submissive.
I repeat it because it remains true.
I do not like yielding.
I do not like discovering limits.
I do not like the vulnerability that appears when someone looks too closely at things I would rather keep hidden.
And yet my mind keeps returning there.
Not to obedience.
Not to the gesture.
Not even to the Master.
It returns to the process.
It returns to the possibility of standing before him while something is being adjusted.
While something is being corrected.
While something inside me is being moved a few millimeters away from its usual position.
There is something about that image that refuses to disappear.
Perhaps that is why the Marquis de Sade remains so unsettling.
Not because he celebrated submission.
But because he understood that some people continue pursuing an experience even when they do not enjoy it.
People incapable of abandoning a question.
And my question always seems to be the same.
What would happen if I remained a little longer?
What would happen if I did not withdraw when discomfort appeared?
What would happen if I reached the end of the procedure?
Not because I believe I will like it.
But because I suspect there is an answer waiting there.
Waiting becomes a structure.
I am not waiting for pleasure.
I am not waiting for relief.
I am waiting for understanding.
Yet understanding never arrives where I expect it to.
Every time I imagine the end of the process, I realize I am not imagining a reward.
I am imagining a revelation.
As though there were a precise position from which everything could suddenly make sense.
As though remaining a little longer would be enough.
Observing a little longer.
Enduring a little longer.
The obsession is born precisely there.
Because I never arrive.
Something always seems to be missing.
One more adjustment.
One more step.
One more moment.
And the more impossible it seems to reach, the stronger the need becomes to continue looking in that direction.
Sometimes I suspect I am not obsessed with submission.
I am obsessed with meaning.
Submission merely takes the form of a corridor leading toward a door that never fully opens.
That is why the thought returns.
Not because it finds rest there.
But because it finds a question that has not yet been answered.
And as long as that question continues to exist, part of me will keep imagining the Master working in silence.
Not to transform me into something.
Not to destroy me.
But to complete a process whose ending I still cannot understand.
The neck has locked I should…
