The more I think about it, the less I understand it.
And the less I understand it, the more space it occupies.
That should be a contradiction.
But it no longer behaves like one.
It behaves like a law.
For the last three days I have tried to analyze it from every possible angle.
I have tried to reduce it to a simple explanation.
A session.
A dynamic.
An intense experience.
A memory taking time to fade.
Something reasonable.
Something normal.
But every explanation produces exactly the same result.
New questions.
And every question seems to feed the very thing I am trying to understand.
It is as if the problem is not the obsession.
It is as if the problem is trying to find its edge.
Because every time I think I have reached the boundary, another layer appears.
And beneath that layer there is another.
And beneath that one there is something even harder to name.
The strange thing is that I rarely remember the moments that should matter.
The commands do not return.
The words do not return.
The major events do not return.
What returns are absurd things.
Details.
Fragments.
Residues.
I remember the floor.
Not because there was anything special about it.
Precisely because there wasn’t.
For much of that session I remained staring at it.
I could look at nothing else.
My world had been reduced to a few inches of surface.
Dust.
Tiny imperfections.
Almost invisible marks.
And a long strand of hair.
Brown.
Slightly curved.
Still.
Just as still as I was.
I do not know how long I spent looking at it.
Ten minutes.
Thirty.
An hour.
I have lost every reliable sense of time.
Yet I remember perfectly the feeling that the strand of hair eventually became a kind of horizon.
Everything that existed seemed contained between my gaze and that insignificant fragment of matter.
I remember it more clearly than many important conversations from my life.
And that unsettles me.
Because it makes no sense.
I cannot stop thinking about the dust either.
The way the light revealed it for brief moments.
The way certain grains seemed enormous when there was nothing else to observe.
The way my attention became so narrow that the entire universe appeared compressed into a tiny section of floor.
Sometimes I think the obsession works exactly the same way.
It does not arrive as an explosion.
It arrives as a reduction.
The world loses resolution.
And certain things begin to acquire an impossible level of definition.
While everything else slowly recedes into the background.
That is why everything feels blurrier these days.
Not because the Master is present.
But because something inside me is still using that scale of attention.
Still searching for details.
Still searching for signals.
Still searching for a continuation.
The strangest part came afterward.
When the session had already ended.
When I should have recovered a normal perspective.
When I should have simply become myself again.
That was when I discovered that those memories were not remaining still.
They kept growing.
They kept reorganizing themselves.
The hair.
The dust.
The silence.
The waiting.
The stillness.
Everything began connecting itself to things that seemed completely unrelated.
And the more I tried to separate them, the more tightly linked they became.
Sometimes I catch myself remembering that floor with greater clarity than I remember yesterday.
That should worry me.
And perhaps it does.
But it also fascinates me.
Because I cannot understand why my mind chose to preserve those images with such precision.
As if it found something there.
Something I am still unable to see.
Something that continues developing beyond my understanding.
And perhaps that is the hardest thing to admit.
I do not feel as though I am remembering a session.
I feel as though the session continues growing inside the memory.
As if it never truly ended.
As if part of it found a way to keep developing on its own.
Without permission.
Without direction.
Without requiring the Master’s presence.
And each passing day reveals new details hidden inside details I thought I already knew.
As if the memory were excavating itself.
As if entire rooms were concealed behind a single brown strand of hair lying on a dusty floor.
And the longer I look toward them, the less I understand what I am seeing.
And the less I understand it,
the more impossible it becomes to look away.
I have to move the neck…
