What disturbs me most is that the room continues expanding.
Not physically.
Mentally.
The session ended.
The door closed.
The walls remain where they always were.
And yet the room continues growing.
Every time I try to move away from it, I discover another corner.
Another detail.
Another question.
As though the space found a way to survive inside my attention.
For a long time I believed I was remembering what happened there.
Now I am no longer sure.
I am beginning to suspect that what I remember is the impossibility of stopping the remembering.
Because the room has become a problem without a solution.
An equation that continues producing results even after it has supposedly been solved.
I do not want to think about it.
I think about it.
I do not want to return.
I return.
I do not want it to occupy so much space.
It occupies more space every week.
And the more space it occupies, the harder it becomes to explain why it remains there at all.
The contradiction has grown into its own architecture.
The excitement no longer feels like excitement.
It feels like a constant pressure behind the eyes.
A tension that cannot find release.
A question that continues expanding because no answer is capable of containing it.
I try to remember specific events.
I fail.
I try to reconstruct sequences.
I fail.
I try to arrange causes and consequences.
I fail again.
But I remember perfectly the sensation of remaining.
The sensation that everything was oriented toward something.
The sensation that time itself had reorganized around a waiting.
And that waiting is still here.
That is the strange part.
The waiting survived the event.
The waiting survived logic.
The waiting even survived my attempts to reject it.
Sometimes I wonder whether the room still truly exists.
And the question immediately opens into another.
If it no longer exists, why am I still inhabiting it?
If I am still inhabiting it, why can I not leave?
If I cannot leave, what part of me is still waiting there?
The questions multiply.
None of them close.
And every new question adds weight.
More attention.
More tension.
More obsession.
Until the room stops feeling like a place.
And begins feeling like a condition.
Something that does not happen around me.
Something that happens inside me.
Something that continues growing.
Silently.
Patiently.
As though it is still waiting for me to understand something I do not know how to name.
I have to move the neck I am not moving it the neck has locked I should…
