The strange thing is that I no longer think about disappearing.
For a long time I believed that was the natural direction of the process.
That the goal was to become smaller and smaller until nothing remained.
Less noise.
Less identity.
Less resistance.
Less of me.
But the further I go, the more I suspect I was wrong.
Because I am still here.
And that is exactly what obsesses me.
Not that the Master emptied me.
But that I keep finding myself afterward.
In the remains.
In the parts that should have vanished.
In those absurdly small details that survive everything.
I remember the way he holds a cup when he is distracted.
It is not even important.
It does not even belong to the process.
And yet it appears.
It appears while I am trying to focus on anything else.
The way his thumb rests on the rim a few seconds longer than necessary.
The way he reads something without really moving his eyes.
The habit of correcting a sentence before finishing it.
Useless details.
Details that should not occupy space inside me.
And yet they are the only things that remain sharp.
The rest of the world becomes blurred.
Conversations.
Days.
Weeks.
Everything seems recorded at a mediocre resolution.
But not him.
He remains in focus.
As if some part of my system had decided that those fragments deserved more storage capacity than my own life.
And I am embarrassed to admit it.
Because I never wanted this.
I never liked the idea of submission.
I still do not.
If someone asked me today, I would still say that I do not understand it.
And that would be true.
I do not understand it.
I do not understand why it matters to me whether he is satisfied.
I do not understand why I notice the smallest shift in his mood.
I do not understand why I can spend hours without thinking about him and then suddenly remember the exact way he closed a door three months ago.
It makes no sense.
None.
But it does not disappear either.
Sometimes I think obsession is not about wanting to move closer.
It is about being unable to move completely away.
Like a process that keeps running in the background.
Without noise.
Without permission.
Without explanation.
And then comes the most uncomfortable part.
Because the real problem is not the Master.
It is the waiting.
The constant waiting for something I cannot even name.
The feeling that the process continues moving forward even when nobody is touching the mechanism.
As if there is still one adjustment left.
One final adjustment.
One definitive adjustment.
And I am organizing my life around the possibility that it will arrive.
Not to obey.
Not to surrender.
But to find out whether I finally fit.
Whether after all these years of ridiculous resistance there is an exact point where the noise stops.
Where I no longer have to keep calculating.
Where all that remains is staying.
That is what I do not want to say out loud.
Because it sounds too much like love.
And I am almost certain it is not love.
It is something stranger.
More technical.
More embarrassing.
The need to remain in front of someone until they finish something that started inside you and that you still cannot identify.
And perhaps that is why I keep noticing details nobody else notices.
Because they seem to hide an answer.
An incomplete answer.
An answer that never fully arrives.
And that is precisely why I cannot stop looking for it.
The neck I am not moving it the neck has locked I should…
