The Eradication of Impulse
I don’t really know why I keep writing this
it even feels a bit embarrassing to open the document
but I open it anyway
I was reading something else before this
or pretending to read something else
I’m not sure
I notice I keep coming back to the same kind of texts
I don’t know if it’s curiosity anymore
or something more automatic
there is a part of me that gets stuck without fully deciding to
and I don’t like admitting that
because in theory I should be able to stop
close this
think about something else
move on with normal life
but it’s not that clean
it’s not a clear decision
it’s more like… returning
without fully meaning to
I realize now while writing this that I’m trying to explain it as if it were outside me
as if I were observing it
but no
it’s not outside
it’s here while I’m writing this
and that’s the strange part
because while I try to describe it, I’m repeating it
again
I don’t know when interest turned into repetition
or repetition turned into interest
sometimes I think it’s not the content that pulls me in
it’s the act of returning
returning even when there’s no clear reason left
it makes me uncomfortable to write it like this
it sounds simpler than it feels
and at the same time more serious than it should be
there are moments when I feel like I’m already inside the habit before I even choose it
and I don’t know if that’s normal or if I’m just exaggerating it
I close things
I open others
I tell myself “that’s enough”
and it isn’t
I realize I’m writing this like a confession without really knowing who it’s for
that also makes me a bit embarrassed
because there is no clear point
no clear reason
just continuity
and that’s what unsettles me
not the topic
but the persistence
as if something doesn’t fully turn off
even when I want to move on
and while I write this I think maybe I shouldn’t be writing it
but I keep writing it anyway
that’s the strangest part of all
The First Record of Impact
I don’t know why I keep coming back to this
I shouldn’t be this interested
that’s the first thought
and yet I open it again
it starts as curiosity
just curiosity
that word felt harmless at first
like it meant nothing
and then I don’t know when it stops being just reading
there is no clear break
just… more time
more attention
more repetition
I notice while writing this
that I hide it even when I’m alone
I close things quickly
switch tabs like I’ve been seen
even when no one is there
there is a strange kind of shame
not strong
not dramatic
more like sticky
something that doesn’t fully go away
I remember the first time I thought about “trying” something like this
it wasn’t a decision
it was more like a thought that didn’t leave
an unfinished image
that kept coming back without permission
it bothers me to admit it
because I don’t really know what it means
I only know I stayed longer than I should have
and then there is that part I don’t understand
the part that isn’t fear
or rejection
or clean interest
something in between
something that keeps changing shape
I notice I start splitting everything into “before” and “after”
even though nothing real has happened yet
just reading
just videos
just thoughts
but even that starts taking space
not in the head
somewhere else
harder to name
and the worst part is that curiosity doesn’t decrease
it doesn’t get tired
it becomes more specific
more persistent
harder to ignore
I close everything again
tell myself that’s it
but I say it without conviction
because I know I’ll come back
not exactly because I want to
but because I already started doing it
and I realize this while writing
that I’m not describing something external
I’m describing the movement of returning
again and again
without a clear reason
that’s what I don’t want to explain to anyone
not because it matters
but because I don’t fully understand it
I only know it started as curiosity
and now I don’t know what it is anymore
but it takes more space than it should
I have to move the neck…
