I used to think the strange part was what I was reading.
I spent weeks trying to figure out exactly what felt strange about it.
A video.
An image.
A specific sentence.
Something.
There had to be something.
It took me far too long to realize I was looking in the wrong place.
The strange part wasn’t what I was looking at.
The strange part was that I kept coming back.
The first time was curiosity.
At least that’s what I told myself.
There were things I didn’t understand.
Dynamics that felt distant.
Even ridiculous.
And that was exactly why I kept reading.
Not because they convinced me.
Because they didn’t.
Because something never quite fit.
I remember thinking that eventually I’d find an answer and lose interest.
That seemed logical.
What didn’t seem logical was the opposite happening.
The more I read, the more questions appeared.
The more questions appeared, the more space all of it occupied.
Curiosity started changing shape.
And I think that’s when I started feeling uncomfortable.
Not because of what I was reading.
Because of how easily I came back.
I put my phone face down.
As if the gesture had some kind of power.
As if five seconds of willpower could erase weeks of repeating the exact same route.
Five minutes.
Or less.
I turn it over.
The strange thing is that it doesn’t surprise me anymore.
What surprises me is the waiting.
As if those five minutes were part of the ritual.
As if some part of me already knew exactly what was going to happen.
The coffee cup is still beside the computer.
It’s cold.
I know because I touch it.
Not because I remember finishing it.
For a second I try to reconstruct the time.
I can’t.
I know I was here.
I know I never got up.
I know I looked at the screen.
But part of the journey is missing.
As if someone skipped a few pages without telling me.
The alarm is still set.
I checked it this morning.
That means I did exactly what I was supposed to do.
Opened the app.
Set the time.
Confirmed it.
My hand reached every correct place.
But I don’t remember the moment itself.
And I don’t know why that bothers me more than it should.
Maybe because it’s starting to resemble other things.
Small decisions.
Small habits.
Small movements.
Things that happen before I arrive.
The most uncomfortable part is that it doesn’t only worry me.
It also fascinates me.
If I truly wanted this to disappear, it probably would have disappeared already.
But I keep watching something.
Not the content.
Not the stories.
Not the images.
I keep watching the moment before.
The exact instant when some part of me has already started coming back.
And I still don’t know it.
I need to move my neck.
I think about it.
I wait.
Nothing.
The screen is black.
My reflection sits on top of it.
For a second it feels like I’m watching someone who’s watching.
I need to move my neck.
I’m still thinking about it.
And then I notice something absurd.
I’ve spent more time thinking about moving it than actually moving it.
And for a moment I wonder something I can’t answer.
If I’m waiting for a decision…
why does it always feel like the decision arrives before I do?
I have to move the neck there is no neck I should…
