Nothing has happened yet.
That should be reassuring.
But it isn’t.
In fact, it feels worse.
Because I keep thinking about it.
Not a session.
Not a scene.
Not even a specific person.
I keep thinking about marks.
And I feel embarrassed writing that.
I close the document.
I open it again.
I delete the sentence.
I write it again.
I don’t know exactly when this started.
I used to think it was curiosity.
Now I’m not so sure.
A few days ago I found a photograph.
Just a bruise.
Nothing dramatic.
It wasn’t even recent.
The strange thing was how long I stared at it.
Trying to understand something.
Not the image.
The need to keep looking at it.
As if it contained an answer.
As if it proved something.
I don’t know what.
That’s what unsettles me.
Every time I think I’m done thinking about it, I return.
Not because I want to.
Because I need to check.
Always check.
Yesterday I was organizing old folders.
I found a forgotten screenshot.
I didn’t remember saving it.
I froze.
It was completely ordinary.
But I recognized it before opening it.
That gave me a strange feeling.
As if part of me had already been there.
Waiting.
The room was quiet.
Too quiet.
Dust floated near the window.
A glass sat forgotten on the table.
Three small holes in the wall where a shelf once hung.
I caught myself staring at those things for several minutes.
As if I were delaying something.
As if I already knew I would reopen the screenshot.
And of course I did.
I’m beginning to suspect the fascination isn’t the mark itself.
It’s the return.
Looking again.
Asking again why I saved it.
Trying again to locate the exact moment this began.
And never finding it.
That is the worst part.
Every search pushes the origin further back.
Every check moves it farther away.
Sometimes I wonder whether I’m really searching for a future experience.
Or whether I’ve spent weeks trying to reconstruct something that already happened in some other way.
I don’t know if that makes sense.
But the question remains.
Just like the screenshot.
Just like the history.
Just like the tabs I close and reopen.
I need to move my neck.
I’m not moving it.
The strange thing is that it no longer feels like a decision.
It feels like a memory.
As if my neck remembers something that hasn’t happened yet.
As if it arrived before I did.
I have to move my neck I am not moving it….
