I don’t know why I went back.
That’s the first thing that bothers me.
I don’t remember making the decision. I only remember opening another tab. Then another. Then one more.
At first I had an excuse.
It was curiosity.
I wanted to understand why some people talked about it as if it had changed something inside them. I thought reading a couple of articles would be enough to satisfy that curiosity.
It wasn’t.
The more I read, the less certain everything became.
And somehow that didn’t make me close the browser.
It made me stay.
I don’t keep reading because I understand more.
I keep reading because I understand less.
That’s not even the strange part.
The strange part is that I start waiting for the moment when I can go back.
Not for hours.
For seconds.
I’m doing something else when a tiny thought appears.
“I’ll just look for a minute.”
It’s never, “I’ll spend the whole evening.”
It’s always, “just a minute.”
It never lasts a minute.
Yesterday I checked the time.
Almost two hours had disappeared.
I don’t remember what I was looking for when I started.
I only remember the feeling of continuing.
As if every answer created two new questions.
I’m embarrassed to write this.
Not because of what I’m reading.
Because I need fewer and fewer reasons to return.
At first I needed curiosity.
Now it’s enough to remember that I was once curious.
I don’t know when that changed.
I don’t even know if it changed.
Maybe it was always like this and I’m only noticing it now.
I close the laptop.
I walk into the kitchen.
I open the refrigerator without being hungry.
I’m not thinking about anything.
And yet some part of me is already waiting to go back.
That’s the part I don’t understand.
Not the screen.
The waiting.
I have to move the neck I am not moving it I should…
