I think the problem began when everything else started losing definition.
Not all at once.
That would have been easier to notice.
It happened gradually.
Almost elegantly.
As if a thin layer of fog had begun settling over everything else.
Conversations.
Streets.
Plans.
People.
They’re still there.
I can see them.
I can take part in them.
I can answer when someone speaks to me.
But something has changed.
Because they no longer occupy the same amount of space.
Meanwhile, the Master’s process seems to do the exact opposite.
Every time I try to move away from it, it becomes sharper.
Every time I try to reduce it to a memory, it gains more detail.
It’s absurd.
There are entire days I barely remember.
Yet I can remember perfectly the way he rested a hand on a table while thinking.
I can remember a pause lasting three seconds.
The way he looked at something before correcting it.
The way he seemed to wait.
Always wait.
As if he understood something about time that I didn’t.
And maybe that’s where the obsession began.
Because I still don’t understand it.
I don’t like thinking of myself as submissive.
I don’t even like writing the word.
When I read it, it feels like it belongs to someone else.
Someone simpler.
Someone easier to explain.
And yet the image returns.
Again.
And again.
And it never really leaves.
The image of remaining in front of him.
Doing nothing.
Receiving nothing.
Not even speaking.
Simply remaining there while his attention continues moving toward somewhere I cannot see.
And that should bore me.
It should frustrate me.
It should make me want to leave.
Instead, the opposite happens.
The longer the waiting lasts, the harder it becomes to walk away.
As if the waiting itself is the real process.
As if everything else is merely preparation.
There are moments when I’m doing something entirely unrelated and I realize my mind is no longer where it should be.
Someone is speaking to me.
I nod.
I answer.
But part of me is somewhere else.
In a quieter room.
Watching him review something.
Watching him correct something.
Watching him decide something.
And above all, watching him not be finished yet.
I think that’s what haunts me.
Not the ending.
The absence of the ending.
The feeling that the process is still open.
That there is still one final review.
One final adjustment.
One final observation.
And as long as that possibility exists, everything else feels temporary.
Blurred.
Like a landscape seen through a rain-covered window.
Life keeps happening.
I know it does.
But it no longer carries the same weight.
Because too much of my attention remains orbiting something I do not understand.
Something I don’t even want.
Or at least don’t want to want.
And the harder I try to resolve that contradiction, the worse it becomes.
Because I don’t find answers.
I only find more images.
More details.
More memories.
More waiting.
Sometimes I think what truly obsesses me is not him.
It’s the way he seems to inhabit time.
The way he turns delay into a presence.
The way he makes an unfinished process feel more important than anything completed.
And then something happens that embarrasses me to admit.
I start waiting too.
I don’t know exactly for what.
I don’t know exactly why.
But I wait.
As if part of me is still standing in front of him.
As if it never completely left.
As if the rest of the world has begun losing focus only to make room for that single image.
Remaining.
Waiting.
Discovering that the ending has not arrived yet.
And feeling relief when I realize there is still a little more left to wait for.
I have to move the neck I am not moving it the neck has locked I should…
