I do not like it.
That is probably the first truth.
The second truth is harder to admit.
I cannot stop thinking about it.
The rod remains on the table while the Operator prepares the rest of the setup.
I try not to look at it.
I try several times.
I always end up returning to it.
There is nothing special about it.
It is just a flexible tool with a few marks from use.
It is not even particularly threatening.
What feels strange is how much space it occupies inside my head.
It has not even touched my skin yet.
And I am already thinking about it.
That irritates me.
Because I would rather think about anything else.
The lamp.
The ventilation system.
The water stain near the ceiling.
Anything.
Yet I keep returning to the same object.
As though some ridiculous part of my attention has decided to settle there.
When it begins, the sensation is not what I expected either.
It never is.
My imagination always creates something worse.
More dramatic.
More defined.
Reality is far more uncomfortable.
It is not enjoyable.
It is not enlightening.
There is no hidden revelation.
No higher truth.
I simply do not like it.
And yet.
That is the problem.
The mind refuses to behave properly.
The first impact disappears.
Then the second.
Then the third.
But something remains.
Not the sensation.
The anticipation.
I start noticing that I am listening.
Waiting.
Calculating.
I do not want to.
But I am.
There is a particularly irritating moment when I realize I am anticipating the next contact.
Not because I want it.
Because my attention has already organized itself around the possibility.
That bothers me more than anything else.
The loss of control does not happen in the body.
It happens there.
In that small shift of priorities.
My body is still mine.
My thoughts are still mine.
I think.
Then why do I keep waiting?
There is a small crack in the paint on the wall.
I stare at it for several minutes.
I try forcing myself to focus on it.
It works for a while.
Then I return.
I always return.
The ventilation system makes a strange sound.
Two short pulses.
One long pulse.
It repeats endlessly.
I begin using it to measure time.
Then I realize I am using something else to measure time as well.
The intervals.
The spaces between one moment and the next.
That should worry me more.
I do not know why it does not.
Maybe because the contradiction itself is exhausting.
I do not want it to continue.
I do not want it to end.
Both things are true.
Neither makes sense.
As the session approaches its end, I feel relief.
Real relief.
Immediate.
Physical.
Then I glance at the rod on the table one last time.
It is no longer doing anything.
It does not move.
It produces no sensation.
It is just an object.
And yet I keep looking at it for a few seconds longer than necessary.
That is the only thing that truly unsettles me.
The neck I am not moving it the neck has locked I should…
