I don’t think my problem is submission.
If it were, things would be simpler.
I could reject it.
I could accept it.
I could argue against it.
I could place it into some recognizable category and move on.
But that’s not what happens.
What troubles me is something else.
The way everything seems to have changed size.
Since the last session there are moments when I walk through the city and feel the strange sensation that something important is missing from the picture.
I don’t know what it is.
The buildings are still there.
The people are still there.
The traffic is still there.
Nothing has disappeared.
And yet something seems to have quietly withdrawn from the world.
As if a layer of meaning had been removed overnight.
I don’t like being submissive.
I still think that.
The sentence still appears with the same clarity.
But it no longer has the same effect.
It used to feel like a conclusion.
Now it feels like a question.
Because the more I repeat it, the less it explains.
And the less it explains, the more time I spend thinking about it.
And the more time I spend thinking about it, the more space the Master occupies.
Not because I admire him.
Not because I idealize him.
Not because I want to become someone else.
Simply because I cannot resolve the contradiction.
There are days when I try to focus on something else.
Reading.
Working.
Watching a film.
Talking to someone.
Everything works for a while.
Then a crack appears.
A moment of silence.
An empty space between thoughts.
And there it is again.
Not the session.
Not a specific memory.
Not an image.
The waiting.
Always the waiting.
The feeling that something remains unfinished.
That the process has not fully ended.
That a conversation is still unfolding somewhere beyond my reach.
And that feeling follows me for hours.
Sometimes I catch myself staring at ordinary objects for no reason.
A cup.
A door.
A corner of a room.
And suddenly I realize I have spent several minutes thinking about exactly the same thing.
When will it happen again?
I don’t understand why that question carries so much weight.
Rationally it should be irrelevant.
Emotionally it feels enormous.
And that difference is exactly what obsesses me.
Because I keep expecting to find a final explanation.
A final layer.
A final answer.
Something that allows me to say: here is the reason.
Here is where the problem ends.
But it never happens.
Every explanation becomes a doorway.
And behind every doorway there is another room.
And inside every room I find a slightly different version of the same question.
I am beginning to suspect that the obsession does not grow because it finds answers.
It grows because it doesn’t.
Because it remains open.
Because it refuses to close.
Because every day it adds another layer of meaning to something that should have become simpler.
And yet the opposite happens.
It becomes more complex.
Deeper.
More present.
Harder to ignore.
Sometimes I think the sadness comes from that.
Not from absence.
Not from distance.
But from discovering that one part of me is still waiting for something that another part of me does not want to wait for.
And neither side seems capable of convincing the other.
That is how the days pass.
One half trying to understand.
The other half trying to stop understanding.
And between them, growing slowly, is the obsession.
The neck I am not moving it the neck has locked I should…
