I shouldn’t be reading this again.
It’s ridiculous to write it that way because nobody is forcing me.
I can close the page whenever I want.
In fact, I do.
Many times.
What I don’t understand is why I come back.
For a long time I thought it was curiosity.
The explanation seemed sufficient.
You discover something new.
You read about it.
You want to understand it better.
Normal.
But something doesn’t fit.
Because it’s been weeks since I learned anything genuinely new.
Most of the time I end up reading different versions of the same ideas.
The same dynamics.
The same stories.
The same comments.
And yet I keep opening pages.
That embarrasses me more than it should.
For a second I thought about deleting that sentence.
Not because it was false.
Because it sounded too similar to other things I’ve been avoiding admitting.
There’s a mug on my desk.
I’m looking at it while writing this.
The mug is exactly where it was an hour ago.
That should be reassuring.
And yet I keep looking at it.
Not because I think it’s going to move.
Because for a moment I need to make sure I was the one who saw it.
It’s a small difference.
But I can’t stop thinking about it.
A few days ago I tried an experiment.
Nothing dramatic.
I stopped reading for an entire afternoon.
I thought it would prove there was no obsession.
The experiment worked.
I suppose.
I didn’t open any pages.
I didn’t search for anything.
I didn’t read anything.
What felt strange was discovering how many times I thought about doing it.
I didn’t feel a need.
Or at least it didn’t feel like a need.
It was something harder to describe.
As if I were waiting for the need to appear.
And that waiting was far more constant than the desire itself.
At first I thought I was looking for information.
Then I thought I was looking for a feeling.
Now I’m not so sure.
I think I was looking for something that happened just before the feeling.
The instant before it.
The moment when you still don’t know whether you’re going to open the page.
The possibility.
Last night I set an alarm.
I only wanted to wake up early.
When it went off, I stared at the screen for several seconds.
Trying to remember why I had chosen that time.
I remembered making the decision.
What I couldn’t remember was making it.
I know that sounds absurd.
But for weeks I’ve been finding differences like that.
Small things.
Small delays.
Small cracks.
Nothing important on its own.
And yet they keep accumulating.
Sometimes I close a page because I want to stop thinking about all of this.
Five minutes later I catch myself checking whether I closed it.
Not because I doubt the page.
Because I doubt the gesture.
Because I want to know who decided to close it.
There’s a sentence that keeps appearing more often.
I don’t know when it started.
I need to check.
At first I thought the sentence referred to something external.
An article.
A video.
A story.
Now I think it means something else.
I need to check why I keep checking.
And that’s what is starting to bother me.
Because for a few seconds I think I understand the answer.
I can feel it getting closer.
As if it were standing just behind a door.
Then it disappears.
And all that’s left is a new question.
Not about what I’m looking for.
About who started looking for it.
I have to move the neck I am not moving it I should…
