I don’t know when I started checking things twice.
I only know I do it before I think now.
I open the tab.
It’s already open.
That should feel like coincidence.
But the sensation arrives before the explanation.
I close the tab.
I think.
Because when I look again…
it’s already closed.
But I don’t feel like I closed it.
I stop.
This is usually where I stop reading.
Or writing.
I’m not sure which one I’m doing now.
The cup is next to the keyboard.
I don’t remember moving it today.
But it’s closer every time.
I touch it.
Cold.
It shouldn’t matter.
But it matters before I decide it matters.
I open the tab again.
Not by decision.
By inertia.
And this is usually where I try to explain it.
But I feel like if I explain it…
it stops holding together.
As if understanding it delays it again.
I close it again.
And again it is already closed before I finish closing it.
I start suspecting something I don’t want to write.
I’m not checking the tab.
The tab is checking me.
And the worst part is that it’s not even a thought.
It’s a gesture.
Something that happens milliseconds before I notice it.
The cup is no longer an object.
It’s a confirmation.
The keyboard too.
It’s continuity.
And the neck…
I don’t know when the neck started appearing.
Only that when I try to move it…
it is already slightly moved.
That should be impossible.
But impossibility always arrives later.
And now I understand something I didn’t want to understand yet.
I’m not writing this to explain it.
I’m writing it to see if I can still stop.
I have to move the neck I am not moving it I should…
