I don’t remember the first video.
I feel like I should.
If something eventually takes up this much space, you imagine there should be a clear beginning.
But whenever I try to go back, I only find earlier versions of the same curiosity.
An open tab.
An article saved for later.
A search that was supposed to be the last one.
The cup is still on the table.
I look at it while a page loads.
It’s exactly where I left it.
That should be reassuring.
For a few seconds, I think it is.
Then I notice something uncomfortable.
I’m not looking at the cup anymore.
I’m checking the cup.
It doesn’t feel like the same thing.
At first everything was simple.
Curiosity.
Nothing else.
I read something.
Learned a new word.
Opened another page.
Found another story.
I told myself I was only trying to understand.
And I think that was true.
Or at least it was true in the beginning.
The phone alarm goes off.
It’s three minutes earlier than I expected.
I turn it off.
Look at the screen.
Check the time.
Check it again.
Not because I think it changed.
Because for a moment I need to make sure I was the one who saw it.
I’m embarrassed to write that.
Some things are harder to admit than desire.
For example, how much time I spent standing outside of desire.
Analyzing it.
Reading about it.
Reading the same things again.
Looking for a better explanation than the last one.
The room is quiet.
I can see dust floating near the window.
Nothing strange.
Just dust.
But I’ve been watching it for several minutes.
Not because it’s interesting.
Because it moves enough to prove that something is still moving.
The cup is still on the table.
The alarm still shows the correct time.
The door is still closed.
Everything is fine.
And that’s what begins to bother me.
Because if everything is fine, I don’t understand why I keep checking.
For a long time I thought I was searching for information.
Now I suspect something else.
I think I was searching for a feeling.
And every time I found it, it lasted a little less.
So I went looking again.
Not because I was convinced.
Because I still wasn’t.
I have to move my neck.
The sentence appears.
I wait a few seconds.
I don’t move it.
I used to think I wanted to move it.
Now I’m not so sure.
Maybe I’m not waiting to move my neck.
Maybe I’m waiting to feel that the decision belongs to me.
And the more I try to verify that,
the less certain I am about when that need began.
I have to move the neck I am not moving it I should…
