I shouldn’t be writing this like this.
Or maybe I should.
I don’t know.
There is a part of me that wants to explain everything as a system.
Another part doesn’t understand why I need to.
Today I opened the tab again.
I wasn’t sure I had closed it.
That is normal now.
I think.
The problem is that every time I open it I am already inside the need to open it again.
It is not a thought.
It arrives before the thought.
And that makes me feel ashamed.
I don’t know exactly why.
There is something about repetition that doesn’t match the version of myself I keep describing.
I start suspecting something simple.
I am not using the tab.
The tab is using me as verification.
I hate that sentence.
Because it sounds too clear.
And nothing feels clear while it is happening.
Only afterwards.
One second afterwards.
Today I tried to stop.
I think.
Or I tried to check whether I could stop.
It is not the same thing.
I didn’t notice until later.
The neck appears again.
I don’t know why it keeps appearing there.
It is not important.
But it returns.
As if it were a way of correcting everything else.
I start to think I am not describing actions.
I am describing the interval between an action and the moment I recognize it.
And that interval is getting shorter.
That should reassure me.
It doesn’t.
Because it might also mean the opposite.
That there is no interval anymore.
Only reconstruction.
Only adjustment.
Only writing that arrives late.
The tab is open again.
I don’t remember opening it.
I close it.
I open it again.
And each time it becomes harder to know whether I am choosing or verifying a previous choice.
This should stop here.
But I don’t know where “stopping” begins.
I used to think:
“I am exaggerating.”
Now that sentence appears after the doubt.
Not before.
And that is what unsettles me most.
Not the idea.
The order.
I have to move the neck I am not moving it I should…
