The scream, in the writings of the Marquis de Sade, does not appear as an explosion of emotion, but as an interruption in the system of control that attempts to stabilize the body.
It does not express.
It disrupts.
It is the exact point at which internal organization can no longer hold itself without fracture.
But what is unsettling is not its volume.
It is what comes after it.
The moment it has already happened, and the body begins to review it as if unsure it actually produced it.
The scream is not preserved as sound.
It is preserved as evidence.
Something that forces a mental return to that instant to check whether it was real or whether it was an overflow already prepared before it happened.
And there lies the quiet inversion.
It is not the scream that breaks continuity.
It is the need to check it afterwards.
To reconstruct it.
To decide whether it was a beginning or a consequence.
In that loop, the subject stops remembering the scream as an event.
And starts remembering it as doubt.
It is not the scream that breaks the system.
It is the moment it stops being a decision.
That is what I have started to notice.
Not the voice.
But the point where the voice no longer belongs to the one who produces it.
Sometimes it happens before any sound.
A minimal tension in the throat.
As if the air had already been compromised.
Without yet being released.
I have started recording small things.
Not events.
State changes.
The way I breathe after speaking.
As if breathing needs to “correct itself.”
Today it happened with something almost imperceptible.
An impulse to say something.
That never fully emerged.
Not because I suppressed it.
But because it never completed itself.
And yet it left an effect.
As if the sentence occurred without voice.
And the body remembered it anyway.
In the room there is no sound.
But there is density.
A density that does not depend on volume.
But on accumulation.
As if every attempt at expression left a layer.
Not audible.
But present.
I have started to doubt my own pauses.
Not silence itself.
But what precedes it.
As if the pause had already been prepared before being lived.
That is what changes everything.
Not the scream.
But its proximity.
I have been checking things again without reason.
The position of my jaw.
The air before inhaling.
The space before speaking.
Not because something is wrong.
But because something has already been recorded.
And I am not sure I was the one who did it.
I need to move my neck.
I am not moving it.
And this time it is not a sentence.
It is a verification of whether the body is still prior to its own emission.
I have to move my neck…
