The obsession has grown so large that it no longer occupies part of my mind.
It is my mind.
Everything else still exists.
Work.
Conversations.
Food.
Sleep.
But they exist behind it.
As if they were happening in another room.
What remains here is something else.
A question.
Always the same question.
Why do I keep returning?
I do not like being submissive.
The sentence remains true.
I repeat it.
I examine it.
I hold it in front of me like a diagnostic instrument.
I do not like being submissive.
And yet I keep returning.
The contradiction should solve something.
It solves nothing.
It makes everything worse.
Because the truer the first part feels, the more incomprehensible the second becomes.
And the more incomprehensible the second becomes, the more space it occupies.
The excitement reached a point long ago where it stopped feeling like excitement.
Now it feels more like pressure.
A presence.
A constant tension.
As if something remains open.
As if a door had been pushed a few inches and never completely closed.
I try to remember in order to understand.
Remembering does not help.
It only deepens it.
I return to the room.
I return to the waiting.
I return to the silence.
I return to the certainty that everything important seemed reduced to something absurdly simple.
Remaining.
That is the unbearable part.
Not the details.
Not the explanations.
Not the theories.
Remaining.
Already adjusted.
Already placed.
Already beyond the need to decide anything.
Waiting.
Only waiting.
And then the questions arrive.
One after another.
Without rest.
Why did that seem sufficient?
Why did the waiting seem more important than the outcome?
Why do I remember the intervals better than the events themselves?
Why am I still thinking about it?
Why is it still growing?
Why does the contradiction not destroy it?
Why does the contradiction seem to feed it?
The questions open.
They never close.
Every provisional answer creates three new questions.
Every explanation produces more confusion.
And confusion creates more obsession.
And obsession creates more excitement.
And excitement destroys any critical distance.
Then more confusion appears.
The circuit closes again.
I cannot find an exit.
Because an exit would require understanding.
And the closer I come to understanding it, the closer I come to the experience itself.
I am no longer trying to solve a memory.
I am trying to solve why that memory is still alive.
Why it still breathes.
Why it is still growing.
Why it is still occupying space.
Why it continues demanding space.
And why, after all this time, part of me still returns to the same image.
Not the action.
Not the ending.
Not the explanation.
Only the waiting.
Only the certainty of remaining there.
Only the feeling that the ending belonged to the Master.
And that my only task was to still be present when it arrived.
The neck I am not moving it the neck has locked I should…
