What unsettles me most is not the silence of the room.
It is the silence that remains afterward.
Because the session ends.
The door closes.
The building disappears behind me.
The street continues functioning.
People talk.
Cars pass.
Traffic lights change.
And yet something remains motionless.
I do not like being submissive.
The sentence keeps appearing.
Sometimes I repeat it quietly.
Sometimes I simply watch it pass through my mind.
I do not like being submissive.
I do not like pain.
I do not like waiting.
I do not like waking up thinking about it.
And yet every denial seems to add another layer.
As if the obsession feeds on resistance.
Over the last few days I have started noticing something strange.
I do not remember the orders as much.
I do not even remember every detail of the sessions clearly.
What I remember is the silence.
That specific silence.
The silence of remaining where the Master had left me.
Without moving.
Without speaking.
Without needing to decide anything.
The outside world seems to demand an absurd number of decisions.
Choose.
Answer.
Explain.
Plan.
Interpret.
Whereas there everything seemed compressed into a single task.
Remain.
And the more time passes, the harder it becomes to ignore the difference.
Sometimes I am talking to someone and suddenly I notice a fracture.
A small interruption.
A kind of invisible distance.
The conversation continues.
I continue.
But something inside me is no longer there.
It has returned to that room.
It has returned to the motionless moment.
It has returned to the silence.
And then the sadness appears.
Not dramatic sadness.
Not sharp sadness.
Something worse.
A quiet sadness.
A sadness that resembles fog.
A sadness without an argument.
It simply arrives.
As if something were missing.
As if my mind were still waiting for a continuation that never fully comes.
Then I think about the room.
I think about the door.
I think about the way the light remained motionless upon the walls.
And I think about that third red line.
The isolated one.
The one separated from the other two.
The one near the upper part of the door frame.
I still do not understand why I remember it.
It was not important.
It was not part of the session.
It had no meaning.
And yet it remains there.
Suspended inside my memory.
As sharp as the first day.
Sometimes I suspect my mind clings to those details because they are the only things that do not change.
The line.
The door.
The silence.
The waiting.
While everything else becomes blurrier.
More distant.
Harder to hold.
And perhaps that is what frightens me most.
Not obedience.
Not pain.
Not submission.
But clarity.
Because outside that room everything seems to slowly fragment.
But inside the memory everything remains defined.
The shapes.
The distances.
The shadows.
The exact position of the hands.
The breathing.
The stillness.
As if memory had decided to preserve that place at a higher resolution than the rest of my life.
I do not understand why.
And the more I try to understand it, the less I succeed.
The less I succeed, the more it grows.
And the more it grows, the more I find myself looking at the world as if I were constantly comparing it to something that is no longer present.
Something that ended.
Something that continues expanding.
Something that may have stopped being a memory a long time ago.
I have to move the neck…
