Infinite search, in the mechanism of rigidity engineering, does not begin as exploration.
It begins as a minimal gesture.
A nearly innocent movement.
Opening the interface.
Sliding the finger.
Accepting the start.
And in that instant there is already no clear return.
Not because something happens outside.
But because something inside has already been reorganized.
Before the first image.
Before the first decision.
I feel the pre-noise of scrolling vibrating in the nervous support before the catalog unfolds.
It is not desire yet.
It is suspension.
A waiting without object.
A kind of active void.
As if the system already knew I will not finish choosing.
And still it offers everything.
Abundance does not free.
It saturates.
And in that saturation appears the quietest form of control.
Not prohibition.
But the impossibility of stopping.
Sade, if he appears here, is not in the extreme image of desire.
He is in the structure of excess.
In the point where choice stops being decision.
And becomes reflex.
The catalog does not ask me to want.
It trains me not to close.
To continue a little more.
Always a little more.
And that “more” has no direction.
Only continuity.
There is something almost physical in it.
A fatigue that does not come from effort.
But from exposure.
From seeing too much without ever touching anything.
The mind begins to behave like a muscle that no longer distinguishes between exploring and giving up.
Between searching and abandoning.
And in that point, rigidity appears.
Not as stability.
But as soft blockage.
An immobility disguised as freedom.
I keep scrolling.
But I no longer know whether I am choosing or being carried by the structure of what is shown.
The algorithm does not order.
It sediments.
It lays layers of overlapping options until the present becomes opaque.
And then the strangest feeling appears.
It is not frustration.
It is anticipatory exhaustion.
As if the decision were already failed before being attempted.
The self becomes a delayed notification of its own choice.
Always arriving after the gesture.
Never before.
And in that delay, the subject holds itself together.
Not as center.
But as residue of navigation.
Sade would have seen something colder than desire here.
An architecture of postponement.
Where there is no final act.
Only variations of the same repeated beginning.
And perhaps that is why infinite search is not hunger.
It is circulation.
A movement without discharge.
A promise that renews itself just as it is about to resolve.
And what is most unsettling is not getting lost.
It is discovering there is nowhere to arrive.
Only layers.
Only more.
Always more.
I don’t know what I’m looking for.
That’s the first thing that makes me feel ashamed.
Not knowing, and still opening it.
The screen loads.
Too slow.
I feel my body more than the image.
One second before scrolling, I’m already tired.
There is something intimate in this I don’t want to name.
Something not yet pleasure.
But similar enough.
I scroll.
I scroll again.
And each time it gets worse.
Because nothing stops me.
Only continuity.
Thumbnails.
Faces.
Small promises that never deliver anything.
I tell myself: one more.
Always one more.
And that sentence no longer sounds like choice.
It sounds like falling.
—
I don’t keep watching because I understand.
I keep watching because understanding doesn’t help.
That bothers me.
It shouldn’t be like this.
But it is.
—
The system doesn’t shout.
It whispers.
And the whisper is worse.
Because it enters before I can refuse it.
I feel fatigue in my eyes.
Not exactly physical.
More like internal saturation.
As if I had already seen everything without seeing anything.
I pause for half a second.
Not enough.
—
There is a strange moment.
Between two scrolls.
It is not silence.
It is compressed waiting.
Something like guilt appears there.
Not strong.
Not clear.
Just a texture.
—
I keep going down.
The movement is no longer choice.
It is trained inertia.
The thumb knows the path better than I do.
—
I think: I should close it.
I don’t.
I think: there is nothing here.
And still I remain.
That’s what doesn’t fit.
—
The room is still.
But inside the head everything slides.
Lime.
Dust.
Accumulated screens.
I don’t know when it became physical.
But it did.
Neck tight.
A small pull.
Ignored.
—
Another scroll.
Another.
There is no difference anymore between searching and repeating.
Only minimal variations of the same thing.
—
And at some point, very briefly, an uncomfortable clarity appears:
this is not curiosity.
this is maintenance.
—
I close the app for half a second.
I open it again.
I don’t know why.
I do.
But I don’t want to write it.
—
The infinite search doesn’t end.
It only changes shape.
And I stay inside as if it were normal.
As if there were no edge.
But there is.
I just haven’t touched it yet.
—
The thumb stops.
Finally.
One moment.
Too late.
Or too early.
I have to move my neck I am not moving it…
