I don’t know exactly when it started taking up so much space.
A few years ago, if someone had asked me about it, I would have called it simple curiosity.
The kind of curiosity that makes you read one article, then another, then another because you want to understand how something works.
That’s what I thought I was doing.
Understanding.
Learning.
Researching.
It sounds better when I describe it that way.
Cleaner.
Easier to explain.
The problem is that after a while I started noticing something that made me uncomfortable.
I wasn’t reading new things anymore.
I was reading the same things.
Over and over.
The same dynamics.
The same conversations.
The same stories.
I’d close a tab.
Come back a few hours later.
Open another one.
Not because there was new information.
Not because I had a specific question.
I came back because I wanted to recover a feeling.
And that difference still feels difficult to admit.
I remember one night in particular.
Nothing special.
Just a dark room and the glow of a monitor.
An empty mug on the desk.
The distant sound of traffic outside.
And me reading for hours.
Not taking notes.
Not learning anything.
Just reading.
The strange thing was that I wasn’t really interested in the details.
Not even in the practices themselves.
What interested me was something else.
The structure.
The relationship.
The distribution of weight.
The idea that one person waits.
And another decides.
The idea of asking for permission.
The idea of receiving an answer.
The idea of depending on something outside yourself.
Written like that, it sounds absurd.
But that was it.
Not the content.
The form.
Not the event.
The architecture.
And the harder I tried to explain it, the worse it became.
Because I’ve always thought of myself as someone who needs to understand things.
Plan them.
Control them.
Anticipate them.
That’s why it felt so unsettling to discover that part of my fascination seemed to point in exactly the opposite direction.
Not toward control.
But toward the relief I imagined might exist beyond it.
I think that’s where the contradiction began.
Curiosity created excitement.
Excitement created more curiosity.
And curiosity eventually produced questions that had nothing to do with what I was reading anymore.
The questions became about me.
Why do I keep coming back?
Why do I keep thinking about this?
Why is it so difficult to let it go?
If I could explain it, I could probably accept it.
But the problem is that every explanation opens another question.
And every question seems to move me a little closer to something I’m not entirely sure I want to find.
The mug was still sitting on the desk.
The screen was still glowing.
I remember staring at a tiny crack near the baseboard.
And thinking that maybe I’d spent months trying to answer the wrong question.
It wasn’t:
“Why does this exist?”
It was:
“Why can’t I stop thinking about it?”
And I still don’t know the answer.
I have to move my neck I am not moving it…
