The worst part is not thinking about the Master.
The worst part is discovering how often he appears when I am not thinking about him.
He appears before waking.
In that strange place where my eyes are still closed and the world has not fully returned yet.
For a few seconds I do not remember who I am.
I do not remember what day it is.
I do not remember what I am supposed to do.
And yet he appears.
Not as an image.
Not as a fantasy.
As a presence.
As a direction.
As an invisible inclination of thought.
And that becomes almost impossible to explain.
I try to get up.
Make coffee.
Prepare food.
Do something completely ordinary.
Cut fruit.
Fill a glass.
Look for something in a cupboard.
And suddenly some absurd part of my attention wonders what he would think about something so insignificant.
I do not even need an answer.
The question itself has already occupied space.
And that is enough.
Sometimes I am watching a video that has absolutely nothing to do with him.
A documentary.
An interview.
A landscape.
A tutorial.
And suddenly a sentence appears.
A tone of voice.
A pause.
Something microscopic.
And my mind creates an association I never asked for.
I do not want it.
I do not choose it.
It simply happens.
And he is there again.
The most embarrassing part is that every time I promise it will be the last.
That this time I will focus on something else.
That this time I will behave like a reasonable person.
That this time the thought will end where it should end.
And it never does.
It simply finds another door.
Another crack.
Another route.
Eventually I realize something that embarrasses me deeply.
I am not fighting an image.
I am fighting a permanence.
Because images disappear.
Real obsessions do not.
They infiltrate.
They blend.
They hide inside things that appear completely unrelated.
Perhaps that is why I keep returning to Sade.
Not the scandal.
Not the provocation.
But the disturbing idea that certain things eventually begin organizing reality from within.
That a presence can become an architecture.
That an influence can stop being an influence and become a way of perceiving.
And sometimes all it takes is something ridiculous.
The sound of a belt.
The sharp echo of something striking a table.
A noise that vaguely resembles the Master’s whip.
Nothing more.
Just an ordinary sound.
And yet the room changes for a moment.
As though something had been summoned.
As though some hidden part of me recognized a signal it would rather not recognize.
I try to reason.
I try to step away.
I try to explain why this should disappear.
But time does not help.
That is precisely what feels most unsettling.
Because time does not correct anything.
Time adds layers.
Adds associations.
Adds new pathways.
Adds rooms inside rooms.
And one day I discover something I never wanted to discover.
That I am no longer waiting to forget.
I am waiting to encounter it again.
And that difference is far more difficult to admit.
The neck has locked I should…
