The neck has locked.
I should move it.
I do not move it.
And it is precisely in that moment that the question returns.
Not when I am inside the laboratory.
Not when the mechanism is operating.
Not when the Master is present.
It arrives afterward.
It arrives during absurd moments.
While waiting at a traffic light.
While reading something completely unrelated.
While trying to focus on anything else.
And then I discover something more unsettling than any procedure.
The idea is still there.
Not obedience.
Not exactly.
The idea of reaching the end.
I never liked the word submissive.
I still do not.
There is something about it that feels foreign.
As if it described someone else.
As if it belonged to a language I understand but have never managed to speak naturally.
And yet my mind keeps returning to the same place.
It does not return to obedience.
It does not return to stillness.
It does not even return to the Master.
It returns to the process.
It returns to that unbearable sensation of being carried toward a point I still do not understand.
Perhaps that is what the Marquis de Sade understood better than anyone.
Not satisfaction.
Not the outcome.
But the machinery.
The obsession with discovering what happens when an idea is pushed further than reason allows.
What happens when a question stops seeking an answer and begins seeking a transformation.
Because that is what haunts me.
I do not want to become something.
I want to understand something.
And the less I understand it, the more it appears.
It is a ridiculous contradiction.
I do not like being submissive.
Yet the fascination emerges on its own.
Faster than logic.
More persistent than will.
More difficult to ignore than any argument.
Sometimes I think I have left it behind.
Then I remember that moment.
The instant everything was adjusted.
The moment the Master’s hands finished their work.
The moment there was nothing left to correct.
And something inside me falls silent.
Not because I understand it.
Precisely because I do not.
Because part of me remains convinced that something is hidden at the end of that process.
Something I have not yet seen.
Something I may never see.
And yet I keep looking toward it from a distance.
Like someone staring at a closed door, knowing he does not want to cross it.
And wondering why he still thinks about it every single day.
The neck has locked I should…
