For a long time I thought pain was the important part.
It was the most visible piece.
The one taking up the most space.
The one that seemed to hold everything else together.
So that was where I looked.
It seemed logical.
If a structure remains motionless for years, eventually you start studying the columns.
You stop asking questions about the foundations.
The mug is still beside the computer.
I touch it.
Cold.
For a second I feel as if that means something.
I don’t know what.
I only know that I keep looking at it longer than necessary.
As if I am waiting for the mug to tell me when it stopped being warm.
I thought pain was the bolt.
Then I thought it was habit.
Now I am not sure.
There is something between those two things.
I don’t know what it is.
I only know that it is there.
And every time it becomes harder to ignore.
The alarm is still set.
I checked it this morning.
That means that at some point I did exactly what I was supposed to do.
My hand found the correct place.
My finger pressed the correct option.
The sequence completed itself.
And yet…
When I try to remember the exact moment, I find an empty space.
Not forgetfulness.
Something different.
As if part of the process happened too far away to be observed.
I was about to write that it was automatic.
But while writing it I noticed something.
I am not sure that is true.
Automatic implies absence.
And something is watching.
I don’t know what.
But something is.
The screen is off.
My reflection appears across the black surface.
For a second it looks as if I am watching someone who is watching.
I thought I was observing the habit.
Now I think the habit was observing me.
The idea appears and disappears so quickly that I almost miss it.
But it leaves something behind.
A crack.
Small.
Enough.
The mug is still there.
Still cold.
That means time has passed.
More than I thought.
More than I remember.
And the strange part is not the lost time.
The strange part is that I keep trying to locate the exact moment it disappeared.
I need to move my neck.
I think about it.
I wait.
Nothing.
I need to move my neck.
The feeling does not arrive.
I keep waiting.
And while I wait another possibility appears.
Maybe I was never waiting to move my neck.
Maybe I was waiting for something before that.
Something that happens just beforehand.
Something that always happens beforehand.
The mug is still cold.
The alarm is still set.
The reflection is still waiting inside the dark screen.
And I am still watching a crack I cannot name.
I have to move the neck there is no neck I am not moving it I should…
