I thought it would be enough to turn away.
That a simple retreat — even barely begun — would free me from what I had just brushed against. That there existed, somewhere in this world without slope or wall, a possibility of a blind spot, a direction toward forgetting, a mental about-face capable of silently dissolving what I was not ready to look at.
I wanted to believe one could slip away silently, that turning the eye was enough to dissolve the echo.
But here…
nothing disappears.
I long believed it was enough to change the angle. That consciousness needed a frame, an axis, a fixed point to survive. But here, there is no more angle. No up. No down. Nothing that allows fear to be framed, the unbearable to be located. Every attempt at orientation spins uselessly, as if space itself refused to give me a direction behind which to hide. And it's in this absence of bearings that the subtlest form of presence is born: the one that forces me to stay, naked, facing what I have not named.
