What unsettles me most is not the process.
It is what happens afterward.
Because I keep telling myself that I do not like it.
I keep repeating it as if it were some automatic defense.
I do not like being submissive.
I do not like the feeling of depending on another person’s presence.
I do not like discovering that part of my attention remains oriented toward someone even when they are no longer there.
And yet something happened.
Something I cannot explain without feeling a strange kind of embarrassment.
Ever since I was adjusted by the Master, everything else seems slightly out of focus.
Nothing disappears.
Everything is still there.
But it all feels farther away.
Dimmer.
As if someone lowered the contrast of the world by a small but irreversible amount.
Sometimes I am walking down the street and realize I cannot remember the buildings I just passed.
What I remember instead is the exact way he moved a hand.
The pause before he corrected a position.
The almost unbearable patience with which he waited.
And that makes me angry.
Because those are ridiculous details.
Details that should not occupy any space.
Yet they occupy more and more.
There are days when I try to focus on anything else.
Work.
Reading.
Conversations.
News.
But my mind eventually returns to the same place.
Not to the intense moments.
Not to the obvious parts.
To the waiting.
Always the waiting.
Remaining still while the process continued.
Looking at the floor.
Not knowing how much time remained.
Accepting that the end would arrive only when he decided it had arrived.
And the more I try to understand why that stays with me, the less I understand it.
I cannot find a satisfying explanation.
Logic should point somewhere else.
I should remember the discomfort.
The tension.
The exhaustion.
I should remember everything that objectively makes sense to remember.
But I do not.
Something else returns instead.
The feeling of being suspended inside a process that did not belong to me.
The certainty that my only task was to remain there.
To wait.
To let time move through someone else.
Sometimes sadness arrives in exactly the same way.
Without announcing itself.
Without any clear reason.
I am sitting in front of a screen.
Making coffee.
Waiting at a traffic light.
And suddenly I notice that strange feeling.
As if something important were far away.
As if I had forgotten something.
Then I realize I have forgotten nothing.
I am simply comparing the present to a memory that keeps growing in silence.
That is what worries me most.
Not obedience.
Not submission.
The space.
The amount of space it occupies.
Things used to compete with each other.
Now they do not.
Now everything seems to drift slowly toward the edges while the image of the Master remains motionless at the center.
Not because I want to think about him.
Because it happens.
Because it returns.
Because even when I manage to spend hours without remembering him, I eventually discover that the entire afternoon has been organized around an absence.
And there is something deeply unsettling about that.
Something I cannot accept.
Because I still do not want it.
I still do not understand it.
I still hate how easily my mind returns there.
But every time I try to move away, the same image appears.
Not him speaking.
Not him giving instructions.
Not even him looking at me.
Only the feeling of standing before a process that had not yet finished.
And the absurd, persistent, inexplicable need to remain there until the very end.
The neck I am not moving it the neck has locked I should…
