There are mornings when I wake up completely convinced.
Convinced that it is over.
That all of this has been some strange misunderstanding.
An absurd fixation.
A mistake in interpretation.
I open my eyes.
I look at the ceiling.
I listen to the distant sound of a car somewhere outside.
And for a few seconds everything seems perfectly reasonable.
I do not want to be submissive.
I never liked that word.
Not even now.
It still feels foreign.
As if it belongs to somebody else.
Someone who is not me.
Then I sit up.
The day begins.
And something happens.
I never know exactly when.
It is never dramatic.
There are no revelations.
No sudden impulses.
I simply discover that my mind is no longer where it was.
It has gone back there.
Again.
To the process.
To the Master.
To the waiting.
And what unsettles me most is that I do not return to the intense moments.
I do not return to the extremes.
I return to tiny details.
The way he held silence.
The way he could remain still for several seconds without seeming still.
That strange feeling that time arranged itself differently around him.
And suddenly everything else loses definition.
It does not disappear.
It still exists.
Conversations.
Work.
Messages.
Tasks.
But something happens to them.
They become distant.
Like photographs that are slightly out of focus.
And behind them the same image appears.
Me waiting.
Nothing more.
Not doing anything.
Not thinking anything special.
Simply remaining.
Until his process is complete.
That is where the sadness begins.
Because I do not understand it.
If I hated the idea, it would be simple.
If I loved the idea, it would be simple.
But something worse happens.
I reject it.
And yet I return.
I try to dismantle it.
And yet I return.
I try to explain it.
And yet I return.
Sometimes I think the real obsession is not the Master.
Not even the process.
Perhaps the obsession is the question.
Why?
Why does part of me want to remain there for so long?
Why does that image occupy more space than things that should matter far more?
Why do I remember certain moments with such precision when they were not even important?
The position of a hand.
A pause between two words.
The calm breathing that could barely be heard.
The way he never seemed to be in a hurry.
And the less able I am to answer those questions, the larger the need becomes to keep looking at them.
As if an explanation were hidden somewhere inside the mechanism itself.
As if remaining in front of him long enough would eventually reveal something.
Perhaps that is why my mind keeps returning.
Not because it found an answer.
But because it is still searching for one.
Because it still suspects there is something beyond the limit I already know.
Something that could only be understood from a different position.
A position adjusted.
Corrected.
Reordered by his hands.
And that thought appears at absurd moments.
While making coffee.
While waiting at a traffic light.
While trying to focus on something else.
During a meeting.
During a conversation.
During an ordinary sleepless night.
Suddenly I am there again.
Standing before him.
Waiting.
And I feel a strange nostalgia for something that is not even happening.
As if part of me were already moving weeks ahead.
Preparing.
Adjusting.
Losing definition.
Becoming simpler.
Quieter.
More suited to that future moment.
Not because I want to disappear.
But because I suspect that, when the process finally reaches its end, there may be an answer waiting there.
And that possibility alone is enough to make everything else feel slightly less real.
I have to move the neck I am not moving it the neck has locked I should…
