There is something I don’t usually say.
Because it sounds worse when I write it out clearly.
It’s not really an idea.
It’s a habit.
Something very small at first.
Almost ridiculous.
Just looking.
Just reading a bit.
Just trying to understand how it works.
That’s what I told myself.
“Just curiosity.”
And for a while, that worked.
I think.
Or I made myself believe it did.
I remember nights.
The screen staying on too long.
The room completely quiet.
Me just sitting there.
Switching pages.
One after another.
Without a clear goal.
That’s what feels strange now.
There was no goal.
Just continuity.
Returning.
That’s the word that bothers me.
Returning.
Because it wasn’t once.
It was again.
And again.
And again.
I don’t know when it stopped being “looking” and became “coming back to look again”.
I didn’t notice it at the time.
Only later.
When it was already too late to explain it properly.
Sometimes I get up.
I close everything.
Tell myself that’s it.
That it was just curiosity.
But then it comes back.
Not dramatically.
Not like something pulling me.
More like something small.
Easy.
Too easy.
That’s what worries me.
Not intensity.
Ease.
Automaticity.
As if I don’t have to decide it.
As if it’s already decided before me.
And I don’t know how to say this without it sounding strange.
But part of me isn’t looking for information.
It’s looking for the gesture.
Open.
Read.
Follow a thread.
Return to the same kind of idea.
Even if I’ve seen it before.
Even if there’s nothing new.
Sometimes I close the tab quickly.
If I hear footsteps.
If I think someone might see me.
Not because I’m doing something clearly wrong.
But because I wouldn’t know how to explain it.
And that embarrassment is stronger than what I’m actually seeing.
The worst part isn’t what’s on the screen.
It’s that I return.
That I repeat.
That it doesn’t stop on its own.
There is no single moment where I say “enough”.
Just pauses.
And then again.
I’ve realized something uncomfortable.
It’s not curiosity that keeps me there.
It’s the structure.
The form.
The pattern of waiting for something I can’t quite name.
As if there is something in not deciding.
In letting something external set the rhythm.
Just for a few minutes.
Just that.
And that doesn’t fit the image I have of myself.
Because I should be someone who controls this.
Or at least I thought so.
But this isn’t about control.
It’s about something else.
Quieter.
Harder to justify.
Harder to let go of.
And the strangest part is this:
the more I try to understand it, the more it returns.
Not as an answer.
But as repetition.
As if understanding it doesn’t close it.
It just opens it again.
I have to move my neck I am not moving it…
