There is something I never seem to understand.
Sometimes I close my laptop convinced that I’m done.
That I’ve read enough.
Thought enough.
Spent enough time going in circles about all of this.
Then I go to bed.
Turn off the light.
Try to think about something else.
Work.
Money.
Plans for the week.
Anything.
But it always comes back.
Not as an image.
Not even as a fantasy.
It’s stranger than that.
It’s a feeling.
As if part of my mind is still occupied.
As if I left a conversation unfinished.
And that bothers me.
Because I don’t understand why it happens.
I’m not discovering anything new.
I’m not learning anything new.
There isn’t any missing information.
And yet I still feel the urge to go back.
Sometimes I tell myself it’s arousal.
That would be a simple explanation.
But that doesn’t really fit either.
Because it often happens when I’m no longer aroused.
Hours later.
Sometimes days later.
What comes back isn’t the excitement.
It’s the question.
And that’s what is starting to worry me.
Important questions usually disappear once you find an answer.
This one seems to do the opposite.
Every answer creates another question.
Every explanation opens another door.
And every door seems to lead to the same place.
Me.
I remember lying in bed one night staring at the ceiling.
Completely still.
Thinking I was probably overreacting.
That everybody has strange curiosities.
That they don’t mean anything.
That they pass.
Then I caught myself imagining something very specific.
Not a practice.
Not a scene.
Not a person.
Just the feeling of not having to decide.
And the sense of relief was so immediate that I opened my eyes.
That was the part that frightened me.
Not the idea.
The relief.
Because I had never considered that it might be one of the things I needed most.
And I haven’t been able to forget it since.
If I could explain it, I could accept it.
But every time I try to explain it, another question appears.
And I’m starting to suspect that I’ve spent months reading about certain things because I’m actually trying to read something about myself.
Something I still don’t understand.
Something I may not want to understand.
And yet I keep coming back.
I have to move my neck I am not moving it should…
