The excitement is no longer increasing.
That would be simpler.
If it were increasing, perhaps it would eventually arrive somewhere.
What happens now is different.
It remains.
Like a pulse.
Like something that keeps knocking even when nobody answers.
Sometimes I catch myself revisiting the session in order to understand it.
And then something strange happens.
I do not remember events.
I remember intervals.
I remember spaces.
I remember pauses.
I remember waiting.
I remember remaining motionless while time seemed to accumulate inside the room.
And above all, I remember the pulse.
Not its intensity.
Not its speed.
Its presence.
Its refusal to disappear.
Because when everything else faded, it remained.
And now it still remains.
I do not know exactly when it began.
But at some point my own heartbeat stopped feeling entirely mine.
Not physically.
Mentally.
Every beat seems to point toward something.
As if it is trying to remind me of a question I have not yet managed to formulate correctly.
I try to answer it.
I fail.
I try again.
I fail again.
And then the excitement grows.
Not because I find answers.
Because I do not.
That is the impossible part to explain.
The less understandable everything becomes, the more important it appears.
The more important it appears, the more attention it demands.
The more attention it demands, the harder it becomes to look away.
And the harder it becomes to look away, the more excitement it generates.
The circuit feeds on its own lack of resolution.
I do not like being submissive.
I still think that.
That has not changed.
I could repeat it a hundred times.
A thousand times.
I do not like it.
And yet some part of me continues returning to the same room.
To the same waiting.
To the same sensation of already being adjusted into place.
It does not happen because I want it.
Or at least not only because I want it.
It happens because something remained open.
Because there is a question that still has not found its answer.
And questions occupy space.
A great deal of space.
Too much space.
They begin by occupying a thought.
Then they occupy an afternoon.
Then a night.
Then a week.
And one day you discover that every mental road eventually leads to the same place.
Not because it is the most important place.
But because it is the only one that keeps growing.
There are moments when everything seems to reduce itself to a single image that cannot be resolved.
Not an action.
Not an event.
A wait.
The sensation of already being exactly where you were supposed to be.
The sensation that there was nothing left to do.
Only remain.
Only wait.
Only listen to the passage of time inside a motionless room.
And then the contradiction appears.
The contradiction always appears.
Because one part of me watches all of this with suspicion.
With resistance.
With disbelief.
And another part remains there.
Without moving.
Waiting.
Both things exist simultaneously.
Both grow simultaneously.
And neither succeeds in destroying the other.
Perhaps that is why the obsession continues to increase.
Because it never encounters enough resistance to disappear.
But it never encounters enough acceptance to rest.
So it remains.
Open.
Like a door that never completely closes.
Like a pulse that never completely falls silent.
Like a question that continues growing precisely because nobody has managed to answer it.
The neck has locked I should…
