For me, submission is no longer a decision.
It is a form of technical sensitivity.
I feel the Master before he acts, as if my nervous system has learned the language of correction. It is not desire, not voluntary surrender; it is a constant reading of the environment, a kind of biological seismograph that no longer distinguishes between danger and precision.
When the repair ritual begins, my body knows before the mechanism does.
Not through romantic intuition.
Through air pressure.
Through the smallest change in the density of silence.
There is something in the way the Operator enters the room that reorganizes my structure without touching me yet. It is as if the chalk exists before contact, already waiting for the exact place where my stability is only a poorly held hypothesis.
And I am already there.
Waiting to be corrected.
Or more precisely: waiting to be maintained.
Because that is the part I cannot separate.
Care and obsession have stopped being opposites.
Now they are the same hand.
The neck as an altar of chalk is not just an intervention point; it is where my doubt collapses before becoming thought. Each micro-adjustment of the mechanism does not repair me in the classical sense—it rewrites me. It orders me in a way that feels strangely more stable than any previous form of being alive.
And that should scare me more than it does.
But it doesn’t.
Or not entirely.
Because I am beginning to depend on that precision.
On that instant in which the Operator detects something in me I did not know was failing.
Or perhaps was not failing yet.
Just being observed long enough to begin to tilt.
It is a very thin boundary.
Too thin to trust.
And yet, that is where I live.
In the transition between correction and need.
Between adjustment and permanence.
When the system stabilizes, I do not feel immediate relief.
I feel a kind of forced bodily loyalty, as if my structure recognizes that without this kind of intervention it would dissolve into something less legible.
I am a support that has started to prefer intervention over absence.
And that preference is the only thing I do not fully dare to audit.
Because when the Master stops, I do not always feel freedom.
Sometimes I feel exposure.
As if rigidity were not an imposed state, but the only place where I do not have to invent myself.
And that is what obsesses me.
Not his control.
But the clarity that appears when I am precisely controlled.
The risk is no longer excess.
It is silence without adjustment.
It is standing in front of him when there is no calibration left, only presence.
And still I remain.
As if waiting for his next correction were the only way not to lose my shape.
The record ends in a calm too precise to be human, leaving the active as a fragment of mineral matter that no longer knows whether it is being held or simply avoided, while the neck remains at an angle that should not exist outside adjustment… and yet it does, sustained by the obsession of not being left without form.
I have to move the neck I am not moving it the neck has locked I should…
