“If I could explain it, I could accept it.”
I’ve been repeating that sentence to myself for months.
Maybe longer.
I’m not sure.
That’s part of the problem.
I thought I was researching something.
I thought I was simply curious.
There are thousands of strange things on the internet.
Thousands of subjects people read about for a week and then forget.
I assumed this would be the same.
It wasn’t.
Because I kept coming back.
At first it was easy to justify.
I read an article.
Then another.
Watched a video.
Read comments.
Looked for explanations.
Everything felt perfectly rational.
It was curiosity.
Just curiosity.
At least that’s what I told myself.
What I rarely admit is that I started remembering ridiculous details.
Not the practices.
Not the explanations.
I remember sentences.
I remember specific words.
I remember the feeling they left behind.
And that bothers me more than it should.
Because I don’t know why my mind decided to keep those things.
There are nights I remember perfectly.
The screen lighting up the room.
An empty mug.
The sound of the computer fan.
And me reading something I had already read before.
Not because I had forgotten the information.
Because I wanted to feel something again.
That was the first thing that frightened me.
I wasn’t looking for answers.
I was looking for a feeling.
And once I realized that, it was too late to pretend this was innocent research.
The more I read, the more curious I became.
And the more curious I became, the more space it occupied.
It didn’t disappear afterward.
It stayed.
While I worked.
While I walked.
While I tried to focus on other things.
Like a song stuck in your head.
Only much harder to explain.
Because it wasn’t a song.
It was a question.
Always the same one.
Why do I keep coming back?
I don’t know how many times I promised myself I would stop searching.
Close the tabs.
Think about something else.
Sometimes it lasted a few hours.
Sometimes an entire day.
Then another question would appear.
Another doubt.
Another detail.
And I would come back.
The worst part is that the excitement started to change.
At first it was simple.
Recognizable.
Easy to understand.
Then it mixed with something else.
With obsession.
With contradiction.
With embarrassment.
With a strange need to keep looking at something that didn’t fit the image I had of myself.
Because I’ve always considered myself someone who needs to understand things.
Control them.
Analyze them.
And yet here I was.
Returning again and again to something that seemed to grow precisely because I couldn’t understand it.
Sometimes I think that if I found a definitive explanation, everything would end.
But it never does.
Every explanation opens another question.
And every question feels more personal than the last.
I’m no longer asking what all of this means.
I’m asking why it means so much to me.
That difference should be small.
It isn’t.
It’s enormous.
Because one question is about the subject.
The other is about me.
And I still don’t know which one scares me more.
I have to move my neck I am not moving it should…
