There is a sentence that keeps returning.
I do not like being submissive.
And the strange thing is that it still feels true.
I do not repeat it to convince myself.
I do not repeat it as an act of denial.
I repeat it because every time I examine it, it still appears accurate.
I do not like being submissive.
I do not like losing control.
I do not like depending on another person.
I do not like pain.
I never did.
For years I believed all of that belonged to another universe.
A separate human geography.
Something that happened in films.
In stories.
In strange people.
People who seemed to exist behind glass.
I observed it with the same distance someone observes a distant country.
It existed.
But it had nothing to do with me.
I never imagined I would spend entire days thinking about it.
I never imagined a session could continue expanding after it ended.
I never imagined a person could leave a room and still continue occupying space inside it.
And yet here I am.
Three days later.
Thinking again.
Trying to understand again.
Failing again.
And every failure produces exactly the same result.
More obsession.
That is what I can no longer explain.
Because logic should be working.
It should be dismantling the problem.
It should be reducing its size.
Instead it seems to do the opposite.
The more I analyze the situation, the more complex it becomes.
The more complex it becomes, the more attention it demands.
The more attention it demands, the more layers appear.
And the more layers appear, the less it seems to be about the Master.
Because the Master becomes a kind of invisible center around which unrelated things begin to organize themselves.
A feeling upon waking.
A strange sadness during the afternoon.
An excessive silence in a room.
The sensation that something important should be happening.
And it is not.
That is what confuses me most.
The absence.
Not the presence.
When the session exists, everything feels concrete.
There is structure.
There is direction.
There is logic.
But afterward there is not.
Afterward there is only a kind of echo.
And that echo feels far more powerful than the original event.
Because it has no limits.
It can expand for days.
It can infiltrate any thought.
It can appear while I work.
While I read.
While I walk.
While I try to focus on something else.
Sometimes I catch myself looking at something completely irrelevant and immediately recognize the same sensation.
The same internal orientation.
The same waiting.
As if part of me were still facing a door that is not going to open today.
Then the sadness appears.
Not dramatic sadness.
Not visible sadness.
Something much smaller.
Quieter.
More persistent.
A kind of reduction in resolution.
As if the world were still the same but had lost definition.
As if someone had slightly lowered the contrast of everything.
Then comes the question.
The same question.
Why?
Why is this happening?
Why does part of me seem to miss something another part never wanted to need?
Why do I keep thinking about it?
Why do I keep waiting?
Why do I keep trying to understand?
And the more time I spend trying to answer those questions, the more I begin to suspect something I dislike admitting.
Perhaps the obsession no longer grows because the Master does something.
Perhaps it grows because I keep searching for an explanation that fits.
And every time I fail, the obsession receives another room.
Another corridor.
Another layer.
Another place to expand.
Like an architecture built from my attempts to understand it.
And perhaps that is why it continues growing.
Because I still believe that somewhere there must be a final explanation.
A final room.
A final door.
Something that makes everything coherent.
But every time I reach a door, I find another one behind it.
And another.
And another.
And I am beginning to suspect that the true center of the obsession is not the Master.
It is the impossibility of reaching the bottom.
I have to move the neck…
