I do not know when it stopped being a memory.
At first I believed I was trying to understand what had happened.
That seemed reasonable.
Returning to the session.
Examining it.
Looking for an explanation.
Finding the mistake.
Finding the cause.
Finding the exact moment when everything started occupying too much space.
But something changed.
Because I am no longer trying to understand it.
I am living inside it.
And the more time I spend there, the less clear it becomes where the memory ends and where I begin.
I do not like being submissive.
I keep saying that sentence.
I repeat it as if it were a tool.
As if it could eventually solve something.
I do not like being submissive.
I do not want this to matter.
I do not want a single experience to reorganize the entire map of my desire.
I do not want one room to feel more present than real people.
I do not want the memory of waiting to weigh more than entire conversations.
And yet it happens.
It keeps happening.
What returns again and again is not the impact.
Not even the stillness.
It is something much smaller.
Much stranger.
Much harder to explain.
It is remembering that I was already adjusted.
There was nothing left to do.
No task.
No decision.
No negotiation.
Only remaining.
I remember the Master’s breathing.
Not because it was extraordinary.
Precisely because it was not.
It was ordinary.
Steady.
Indifferent.
And that ordinariness becomes unbearable whenever I return to it.
Because I was there.
Waiting.
And he breathed.
Once.
Then again.
Then again.
And every breath seemed to confirm that the process was still moving toward somewhere I could not see.
I do not remember the intensity of many things.
I do not remember details I probably should remember.
But I remember intervals.
I remember pauses.
I remember silences.
I remember the sensation of remaining motionless while time continued gathering itself around that breathing.
And the more I return to that memory, the harder it becomes to leave it behind.
The excitement appears.
Then I try to analyze it.
And the analysis makes it worse.
I try to dismantle it.
And it grows.
I try to reduce it to a simple explanation.
And it multiplies.
I start wondering why that waiting occupies so much space.
Then the question itself begins occupying space.
And then the fact that I keep asking it occupies space as well.
Everything circles around the same center.
Not an answer.
Not a conclusion.
A waiting.
Because what was unbearable was not what was happening.
What was unbearable was discovering that remaining there seemed sufficient.
And even now I cannot understand why.
The less I understand it, the more I return.
The more I return, the more details I find.
The more details I find, the more impossible it becomes to leave them behind.
The third red line.
The exact height.
The wall.
The door.
The breathing.
The waiting.
Small things.
Ridiculous things.
Things that should have faded long ago.
Yet they remain.
Sharper than events that were far more important.
And sometimes I wonder if obsession is exactly that.
Not remembering something extraordinary.
But discovering that part of me is still sitting in that room.
Still adjusted.
Still waiting.
Still convinced that the ending has not yet arrived.
I have to move the neck I am not moving it…
