There is something that makes me uncomfortable to admit.
The obsession does not diminish.
It grows.
That would make sense if pleasure were simple.
If it appeared as a direct reward.
If there were a logical relationship between cause and effect.
But there is not.
Because the contradiction remains intact.
Part of me still observes all of this from a distance and fails to understand it.
There is still a voice insisting that I should lose interest.
That I should grow tired of it.
That eventually the process should stop occupying space in my mind.
Yet the opposite happens.
The more time I spend thinking about it, the more important it becomes.
And the more important it becomes, the more intensely it returns.
Perhaps that was what the Marquis de Sade understood better than anyone.
Not excess.
Not transgression.
But the ability of certain processes to continue growing inside the imagination long after they have ended.
As if the real event does not occur during the experience.
As if it occurs afterward.
In repetition.
In memory.
In obsessive reconstruction.
There are moments when I am not thinking about the Master.
I am thinking about the process.
I am thinking about the way it unfolds.
The way it seems to move toward a conclusion that never fully reveals itself.
And then something strange appears.
Pleasure no longer seems to come from the experience itself.
It seems to come from anticipation.
From proximity.
From the sensation that there is still one final door that has not yet been opened.
Every time I imagine the ending, the obsession grows.
And the more the obsession grows, the more intense the expectation becomes.
And the more intense the expectation becomes, the more space the process occupies within me.
It is a circuit feeding itself.
A mental architecture built around a question that remains unanswered.
What exactly am I searching for?
I do not know.
And perhaps that is why I continue.
Because if I knew the answer, the obsession would probably disappear.
But I still do not know.
There is still the suspicion that the Master knows something I do not.
Not something about obedience.
Not something about power.
But something about the ending.
Something about that region of the process I have not yet reached.
And that suspicion is stronger than any rational argument.
More persistent.
More difficult to abandon.
I do not like being submissive.
The statement remains true.
But it is also true that my attention continues returning to the same place.
Again and again.
As though some part of me is convinced that the answer is waiting there.
At the end.
Always at the end.
The neck I am not moving it the neck has locked I should…
