There are nights when I promise myself I am not going to think about it anymore.
Not because it frightens me.
Not even because it embarrasses me exactly.
I am simply tired.
Tired of returning to the same place.
Because I have spent years trying to convince myself that it is not important.
And yet it is still here.
Sometimes weeks pass.
Even months.
And I think it has finally disappeared.
Then something absurd happens.
A sentence.
An image.
A memory.
And everything comes back.
Not all at once.
It returns slowly.
As though it has been waiting patiently in some quiet room inside my head.
The strange thing is that I have never wanted to think of myself as a submissive person.
Not even now.
If someone asked me directly, my answer would still be the same.
I do not like the idea.
It does not fit the way I understand myself.
It does not fit the way I would like to understand myself.
And yet there is something inside me that keeps returning to that process.
Not the outcome.
Not obedience.
Not even the Master.
The process itself.
The feeling of moving toward something.
The feeling that there is a point at the end that I have not yet reached.
And the more I think about it, the more uncomfortable it becomes to admit.
Because pleasure appears too.
And that is exactly what complicates everything.
It would be much easier if it were only curiosity.
It would be much easier if it were only fear.
Or fascination.
Or desire.
But it never arrives alone.
They all arrive together.
And they mix.
Sometimes I feel as though I am trying to solve a problem.
Other times I feel as though I am waiting for an answer.
And sometimes I suspect I do not even know what the question is.
Perhaps that is why I keep returning to the Marquis de Sade.
Not because I want to resemble him.
Not because I admire everything he wrote.
But because he seemed to understand something uncomfortable about the human mind.
That some obsessions grow precisely because we do not want to have them.
Because we fight them.
Because we try to push them away.
And in doing so, we give them more room.
There is something I still do not understand.
Something that always appears near the end of my thoughts.
The feeling that there is a door.
And that I have not walked through it yet.
I do not know what is behind it.
I do not even know if I want to know.
But the feeling remains.
And the longer it remains, the stronger it becomes.
Sometimes I think the obsession is no longer about submission at all.
It is about that door.
About the suspicion that something is waiting for me on the other side.
Something I still cannot name.
And perhaps that is why I keep thinking about it.
Because as long as I do not have an answer, the question remains alive.
And the question always returns.
The neck I am not moving it the neck has locked I should…
